Eyes on Me
by Lennarift
Summary: At a lush party in the centre of London, all twinkling lights and champagne, Sherlock backs Molly against a mirror and kisses her. But her eyes are trained over his shoulder, and as much as Sherlock wants to solve this case, he wants Molly's attention more. All of it. A Sherlolly mystery.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: Clearly, I do not own these characters.**_

Sherlock walked briskly ahead the last few paces to the entrance of the hotel in order to hold the door open for Molly. The deep recess of the building's entrance kept the rain off but the wind whipped strongly enough to knock her off her platform heels, and he knew she suffered from uneven balance at the best of times. She breezed past him without a word of thanks. Residual annoyance, he nodded to himself. He caught her elbow as she click-clacked onto the tile floor of the lobby. Molly, water, marble flooring… the risks to this operation kept mounting up. She shook off his arm and stopped in her tracks to glare at him.

"You may offer me your arm and I will take it, if you are honestly that concerned about my ability to _walk_ , but stop gripping me as though you're guiding me through my first steps after a horrible accident." Molly slipped off her elegant coat and straightened her black cocktail dress. "Clearly this was important enough for Mycroft to dress me up like a James Bond Barbie doll; don't undermine the effect by looking like my physical therapist rather than my date."

Sherlock glanced down at her from his considerable height. The achingly postmodern shoes brought the top of her head just past his chin. The asymmetric dress clung to her breasts and hips. From this angle, he could look straight down past the diamond necklace around her throat and into the depths of her cleavage. More intriguingly, he could make out the faint outlines of where her garters snapped onto the tops of the sheer black stockings. Possibly he would send Mycroft a Christmas card after all, this year.

"Sherlock," she snapped her fingers under his nose, "even you know it's socially unacceptable to stare down the top of my dress like that in public."

"Forgive me, Dr Hooper," Sherlock said flatly. He released her elbow and offered her his arm. "I am merely concerned with your safety."

"My breasts are perfectly well, thank you, Mr Holmes," she hissed, but she took his arm. She handed her coat to a waiting staff member at the door to the ballroom. He shrugged out of his Belstaff and handed it over, as well, settling his hand around her waist as the attendants swung wide the doors of the party.

Sherlock squinted as thousands of twinkling fairy lights glinted off the red and gold Christmas ornaments that hung from the ceiling of the grand ballroom. He could smell salmon canapes. The tree in the middle of the room reached into the domed centre of the ceiling and shone like a star, while hundreds of people in gowns and suits swirled round its orbit. A string quartet was playing 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' as they entered. Sherlock cringed at the assault on his senses. He steadied himself briefly by focussing on Molly's breasts, which were rising and falling slightly faster as her breathing sped up with the shock of the party. Also, he could clearly see that her bra fastened in front. He tucked this information away for later.

Molly lifted her red lips toward his ear and he inclined his head towards her to listen: "Where do we start?" Her eyes swept the crowd, looking for anyone who matched the descriptions Mycroft had read out to them earlier.

Sherlock did not answer, but he dropped his hand from her hip and began walking at a forced-leisurely pace towards the far left corner of the ballroom. There, the room splintered into a series of alcoves and corridors. Molly tightened her grip on his arm and did her best to keep upright, following his long strides across the vast room. The party had been going for a couple of hours now, and couples were swaying drunkenly to the music, kissing unashamedly as waiters continued to circulate with endless trays of champagne and nibbles. Sherlock plucked two glasses off a passing tray and handed one to Molly.

Sherlock kept to the edges of the party. He stopped in front of small mirrored alcove with a hefty marble-topped table in the middle of it. An arrangement of red tulips and blue cedar trimmings sat on one side of the table. Without warning, Sherlock grasped Molly around the waist and lifted her onto the table, next to the flowers. The scent of cedar hit them at the same moment. He quickly moved her knees slightly apart and stepped between them. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her. Molly closed her eyes halfway, but continued looking over his shoulder, still scanning for faces in the crowd. She closed her eyes briefly when Sherlock slipped his tongue past her lips, but she refocussed quickly.

Sherlock pulled back slightly. She flicked her eyes over to his, watched him watching the party in the mirror behind her.

"The Italian is 25 metres behind me, next to the quartet," he whispered against Molly's lips.

"The Serbian is off to his right, another 10 metres," she murmured. Sherlock looked into her eyes, but her gaze was fixed on the party taking place over his shoulder. He kissed her again and briefly regained her attention as she closed her eyes. "I think he has a gun the back of his trousers, under his jacket. He's fidgeting," she added in a whisper when he broke the kiss. She ran both her hands through his hair, settled them at the nape of his neck.

Sherlock pulled his face back slightly further and tried to recapture her gaze. "I thought me kissing you would be more of a distraction than that," he sounded wounded.

Molly switched her full attention back onto him. "Oh, god yes, darling, I'm breathless and wanting. _Wet_." Molly sighed into his neck dramatically. Then she snapped her head back up, took a swig of champagne and added, "No sign of the woman. I can't find her."

"That's almost insulting…" Sherlock began.

"Ha!" Molly snorted. "We just had sex," Molly broke off to look at his wristwatch, "two hours and 15 minutes ago…"

"Two hours and 13 minutes," Sherlock nipped at her bottom lip.

"Well, I suppose it depends when you're counting from, and by my count, it was 2 hours 15. We weren't quite synched-up there at the end." Molly looked at him dispassionately. "Now, they're both moving towards that door. Shall we go after them or do you want to keep bickering?"

Instead, Sherlock threaded his fingers into her hair and pulled her up to face him, so that looking anywhere but into his eyes was an impossibility. He stepped so close to her now that she could feel his erection against the bare skin of her upper thigh, where he his body had forced her skirt up and exposed the skin above her stocking. He dipped his head to slide down her face, using his thumb to tilt her chin up hard. He began to kiss down her throat, pausing to suck lightly at her pulse point. Sherlock could smell her perfume more strongly here, and he inhaled a deep breath of her. She felt his erection engorge further against her thigh. He sucked at her neck and watched her. Molly's eyes drifted shut completely and her hands tightened their grip on his curls.

"Not so immune to me as you pretend," he whispered against her neck. "You think that you can have me whenever you want now, so you don't have to pay me the same attention." His free hand slid down to her thigh then brushed forward to find the lacy edge of her knickers. He gently ran one finger beneath the lace. "And you are wet." She knew that his body was blocking everyone else's view of what was going on, but still, this was very public.

"Sherlock, they will get away. Mycroft…"

"Are you mentioning my brother's name while I have my fingers inside you?"

"I am compartmentalising, Jesus Christ, Sherlock, we can't lose them. Mycroft will go mental…"

"I know where they've gone. I have already alerted Mycroft and his men are hunting them down in the hotel grounds. I'm not risking going after them myself with you here." He removed his fingers from between her thighs and brought them up to her mouth. She opened her lips and let him slip his fingers inside her mouth. She ran her tongue along the calloused pads of his fingers before closing her lips around them and sucking her taste off his hand, while looking straight into his eyes.

Sherlock's breath hitched slightly at that. Molly heard it. Mycroft found them like that a moment later, not moving, taking each other's measure.

"There is no need to embarrass yourselves in the middle of the Savoy. I can get you a room," Mycroft said in disgust.

"Yes, please," Sherlock answered quickly. The offer may have been in jest, but Sherlock enjoyed throwing his brother off anyway he could. And he knew that his newly discovered obsession with Molly Hooper threw Mycroft off badly. Sherlock moved the hand in Molly's hair down to her back and swept her off the table and back onto her heels. Molly registered the party again, the faint smell of cloves from some dessert being carried around, and the Christmas music soothing over everything as the quartet played on. She drank the rest of the champagne from her long-forgotten glass.

"Here," Sherlock shoved the empty flute into Mycroft's chest. "Molly needs another drink. And a suite. Don't be long."

Sherlock led her back out into the main thrall of the party. His eyes were back to scanning the crowd for the woman they had not seen yet. Useful from his height, perhaps, but Molly couldn't see much past the backs and heads of the nearest two or three people to her. She picked up another flute of champagne from a passing waiter. She wasn't clear on what the drink limit should be when one was seeking out the members of a murderous cartel, but she figured two couldn't hurt. She drained it in a hurry.

Whatever had been in her drink, the effect was almost instantaneous. Molly went from upright and discretely tapping one impractical shoe to the music, to collapsing onto Sherlock in under a minute. He caught her under her shoulders and knees before she could hit the floor. Mycroft returned at that moment with a key card, and was about to fling it at his brother when he saw Molly unconscious. With the same thought, he and Sherlock began threading their way through the crowd, towards the exit, as Mycroft tapped his phone for his car. Sherlock carried her out the door and straight into the black car that waited with its doors wide open for them. He checked his watch: 10 to midnight, so she must have been drugged at about 11.45. He relayed the information to Mycroft, who was already calling in a team of doctors to await them at the hospital. He laid his hand on her neck, on the point where he had left a bruise earlier, to check her pulse.

Sherlock settled Molly across the backseat, her head on Sherlock's thigh and her legs across Mycroft's lap. Then Sherlock noticed another detail, one that made something in his chest seize up inexplicably.

Just like a proper fairy tale princess, Molly had lost a shoe as they fled the ballroom. He reached across and slid the other off her foot. Sherlock held it like a talisman as Mycroft's driver rushed them through the West End and towards the A&E.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Sherlock carried Molly through the doors of St Bart's, a team of doctors and nurses were ready for her. Mycroft had wasted no time. They took Molly out of Sherlock's arms and straight onto a waiting gurney, a heartrate monitor showing the pulse onscreen that Sherlock had been pressed against only half an hour ago. He swept all the emotion imperiously to one side.

"She's been drugged," he explained loudly to the doctor checking her for head injuries. "She didn't hit her head. She had just drunk a glass of champagne; that's likely how the drugs were administered. She was out in less than 60 seconds."

A nurse was levelling a syringe into a vein on Molly's arm before he finished his explanation. She capped a vial full of Molly's blood and handed it to a waiting lab technician, who took off at a run. The doctor in charge shunted Molly through into a treatment room at the side of a long hallway. He stepped back to let his team through the doors and then shoved Sherlock, hard, onto the opposite wall.

"You will bloody well stay out of my way," the doctor informed him. "Out of this room. I know exactly who you are and I will tell you what I know when I have stabilised her condition. So stay out." The door swung shut behind him, with Molly on one side and Sherlock on the other. He could see the ECG machine pads being attached. He could see her dress being removed by the nurses and laid to the side. They were taking out her earrings, removing the diamond necklace, checking for rings (none). They were, he knew, preparing to restart her heart if necessary.

Mike Stamford stumbled into the hallway, obviously having run from another part of the hospital. He barely took in Sherlock, so focussed on Molly's unconscious form beyond the doors in front of him. Mike set his teeth together, ignored Sherlock, and slipped into the treatment room. He stood at Molly's feet, entirely blocking Sherlock's view of her.

Sherlock seethed, then punched the wall, all just in time for John Watson to show up and lead him away.

...

Molly's unconscious mind scrolled back a month and stayed there. She landed in early November, at Guy Fawkes night. Gunshots mixed up with the fireworks, staring at the gun being held by Moran, pointed straight at her head. She had closed her eyes and listened to the Moran release the safety and the scattershot beat of her own heart. He had ordered her to look at him, so he could admire how frightened he made her. She had bought herself a precious few seconds by refusing.

Then there was Sherlock shoving her to the ground as the blue lights moved in and John got in a clean shot. Sherlock had pulled her back up to her feet and right into his chest in his immense relief. Then he was kissing her. Kissing her and carrying right on kissing her, as Lestrade arrived and cuffed the suspects, as Donovan stared in horror at Molly's poor decision-making when it came to Sherlock. And he just didn't stop, as though the emotion of seeing her nearly die released something in him. Emotion, she supposed.

Eventually, Molly had put her hand against his chest and pushed. "Sherlock, stop. Stop, please. I need to stop kissing you and cry. And I can't breathe to cry properly."

"Are you going to cry because I'm kissing you?"

"Molly, you can press assault charges," Donovan called to her. "I can arrest him right now."

Molly could muster nothing more than a blank stare. "I want to cry because I was scared." She felt like she was explaining basic human emotional response to an alien. "And you're kissing me because you were scared."

"No, I'm kissing you because I have wanted to kiss you for months," Sherlock had responded. "Also, I was scared," he added as an afterthought. "All the adrenaline."

Donovan had been at Molly's back then, rubbing her shoulders with surprising gentleness and prying her away from Sherlock. Donovan had had to unpick each of his fingers from around Molly's arms. She had driven away with Donovan and Lestrade to give a statement, and the whole process lasted hours before she was home again, alone in her flat with no one but Toby for comfort.

Unconscious Molly replayed that scene in her mind on continuous loop, unaware of her physical surroundings. She could sense a commotion somewhere but felt blissfully calm herself. That night, Sherlock had shown up at her door, already a marked improvement in their relationship in that he had knocked, rather than breaking in and waiting for her return like a stalker. Her untethered mind segued and began happily tripping through a list of what separated Sherlock from a stalker: she loved him… And the list ended there. Everything else, the hot/cold emotional pinballing, the breaking and entering, the unreasonable demands on her time, ringing her in the middle of the night with urgent 'casework', everything else pointed quite clearly to stalker. Unconscious Molly resolved not to see him again, not to return his calls, not to run to the lab at Barts to help him no matter the hour. She would tell him no. She would refuse to open the door.

But then she immediately felt confused. She remembered opening the door, she remembered him dropping to his knees in the doorframe of her flat. She could almost feel his hands around her hips as he asked for her forgiveness, explained about Magnussen's death, about Mycroft's about-face, his assurances over and over that John had shot Moran and Molly was safe.

Molly's brow knitted together in thought as she processed her decision to shut him out against her sense that she had in fact invited him in. Stamford, standing at the foot of her hospital bed, saw her forehead crease in thought. He sighed in relief. She must be nearing the surface of the drugs now, he thought. He left Molly with her thoughts and her medical team and headed to find Sherlock. Molly's drugged mind continued to grapple with how she wound up with Sherlock despite her conviction that she would not.

…

John wrapped the last of the bandages around Sherlock's battered knuckles and set the first aid kit to one side.

"Better?" he asked his friend.

Sherlock nodded. "Unnecessary, but better," he acknowledged.

"So now do you want to explain to me why Molly Hooper is laid out on a gurney in at least £200 worth of lingerie, and several thousand in diamonds, and pumped full of date rape drugs? I've read the tox report and that was a wicked cocktail of sedatives she ingested."

"I didn't drug her, for God's sake," Sherlock yelled. "And she was out so fast because she's miniscule. You could drug Molly unconscious with a paracetamol."

"Well then, do explain. Because all of this has now been witnessed by Lestrade, Stamford, Donovan... No one really understands why Molly is in this relationship with you…" Sherlock bristled, "but dressing her up in stockings and heels and then having her show up in hospital out cold on rohypnol… it doesn't look good."

Sherlock stood up and began to pace the length of the waiting room. "I would never hurt Molly. You know that, John."

John gritted his teeth to stay calm. "Think about her for a moment. The best take on this scenario is that your brother tarted up your girlfriend in order to use her as bait in a sting operation. That would pretty much spell 'abusive relationship' to most onlookers. Is that what you want people to think of Molly?"

"She wasn't bait. I would never hurt her," Sherlock repeated. "I would not put her in a position where she could get hurt."

"And yet here we are in hospital." John regarded his friend. "So you just took Molly to a party at the Savoy because you love her and fancied a drink and a dance."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. We were working on a case." Sherlock stopped himself there and thought through the implications from another point of view. From Donovan's point of view.

John pinched his fingers along the bridge of his nose. "Why is it ridiculous to think that you might take your girlfriend out for no other reason than to spend some time with her, have dinner, hear some music? I mean, I realise that it is ridiculous, given who you are, but why should it be ridiculous for her?"

"She knows who I am," Sherlock responded, far more quietly.

"Sherlock, when Molly wakes up and forgives you – and it sadly may not even occur to her that you have anything to apologise for – maybe you should take her out somewhere. Nice. Simply because you fancy an evening out with your girlfriend, who looks undeniably hot in expensive knickers." John grinned at him.

Sherlock just glared at him. "I thought doctors weren't supposed to notice the sexual attractiveness of their patients."

"One, that's a weird myth. Two, I'm not her doctor."

Stamford found them, and Sherlock stopped pacing long enough to ask how Molly was doing.

"Her heart rate is strong and I think she'll resurface in a few hours. They're going to keep the machines on, though, at least until she comes up," Stamford told them. "Lestrade is looking for you, Sherlock. He has questions about how this all happened." Stamford looked Sherlock in the eyes. "We all have questions about how this happened."

"Hey, Mike," John said conversationally. "Did you notice how hot Molly looked in those stockings?"

Mike had the good grace to blush, but he nodded. "Fuck yes."

Sherlock curled his fists into his coat pockets. "Where is the Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asked testily.

"He's right outside Molly's room, waiting to find out how a brilliant pathologist ended up being carried into AE at gone midnight, unconscious, by you."

"Thank you for that, Dr Stamford," Sherlock retorted, and he strode off in the direction of Molly's room again.

…

By the time Sherlock returned to Molly, her doctors and nurses had briefly left her alone, guarded only two agents that Sherlock recognised as Mycroft's, and they let him past without a word.

He slipped into the chair next to Molly's bed and pulled it as close as physics allowed. He slipped his fingers between hers and stroked some stray hairs away from her face.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he whispered into her hand, kissing the limp fingers, "John's right. I did put you in danger, and I won't do it again. I didn't realise, but that's no excuse." He sighed. "John's also probably right that you'll forgive me, even though I'm not sure you should." He stood and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. The movement made Molly frown, but not wake. He kissed her again anyway.

"Get the hell away from her, Freak." Sherlock didn't need to turn around, and he did not do so immediately. He knew it was Donovan. He continued to hold Molly's hand and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. That actually made unconscious Molly smile a bit. "I'm sure you had no trouble getting past the 'guards', as they're being paid by your brother. But you shouldn't be anywhere near her right now. Not when you may be the one put her here in the first place."

"Even you, Donovan, in all your malicious rage, know that I would never hurt this woman."

"Do I? A month ago I was dragging her away from a crime scene where she had come within seconds of a bullet through her brain. And now she's lying in hospital and everyone's hoping she didn't get shot full of too many drugs for her heart to handle. The common denominator is you."

Sherlock straightened up and set Molly's hand carefully back down at her side. "I'll be back soon, love," he told her gently. "Where's Lestrade, Donovan?"

Donovan held open the door to the treatment room and motioned for Sherlock to exit.

"Lestrade's currently being bullshitted by your brother. That leaves me free to question you myself."

She waved toward a bank of plastic seats arranged in an uncomfortable bench. Sherlock leaned down into one, crossing his foot over his knee and commanding the space in a manner that set Donovan's teeth on edge.

"So explain. What horrific situation did you drag poor Molly into this time?"

"Mycroft uncovered a people smuggling operation based in Italy. Taking refugees and reselling them into France, Germany, the UK… We knew that three of the local contacts were at the party, trying to set up some connections to ship women into the UK from southern Europe. We were just identifying them at the party, then Mycroft's people were going to take them in. I called in two of them after Molly and I spotted them. We were looking for the third when Molly was drugged, probably in a glass of champagne she took from a passing waiter."

Donovan smiled. She snapped shut her notebook. "Well, that perfectly matches what you brother just told Lestrade." She stood up unexpectedly. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. That will be all."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"

Donovan smiled victoriously at him. "Nothing for me. Because I know you're going to go home, back to Baker Street, all alone. And now that we know you're actually capable of human emotion, you'll be deep in one particular one: guilt. You'll be wondering exactly when Molly is going to figure out that you're just one more bad decision away from getting her killed, raped or attacked. You'll think and think about this. How awful you are for her. Is the sex worth it? Is it worth you being the death of her?"

Donovan patted her notebook in her pocket. "Good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock waited for Donovan to turn a corner and then dropped his head into his hands. He pulled himself to his feet again and slipped back into Molly's room, sinking onto the bed next to her. He lay back next to her, her hand in his and held to his chest. He closed his eyes and did just as Donovan had suggested; he explored his own guilt.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke up several hours later. He had not moved in his sleep, and Molly's hand was still between his, still on his chest. The nurses seemed to have ignored his presence in her hospital bed. He gave Molly's hand a kiss and laid it carefully back by her side. He turned onto his side, head propped up on his hand, to consider Molly's still-sleeping form. He loved watching her sleep. That first night - after he'd begged her forgiveness in the doorway of her flat, after she'd let him in and let him start kissing her, after they'd ended up naked in her bed - he had watched her sleep for the rest of the night, right through until dawn. He'd waited hours and hours for her to wake up and kiss him again and spread her legs open for him again. He still had to apologise for the conversation gone wrong after their first time. He hoped this was the start of a relationship with Molly, and he knew that frequent apologies, from him to her, were going to play a large part in that relationship.

She had been stroking her hands over his chest afterwards, clearly thinking about something. "How long has it been, Sherlock? Since you last had sex?"

"Exactly 22 minutes," he grinned at her.

"Don't be obtuse. You know what I meant."

He watched carefully for her reaction to the next statement: "Seven years." She didn't look as shocked as he had expected, as though that was the answer she had pretty much expected. So he asked, "Fine, then. How long had it been for you?"

Molly darted her eyes to the side, thinking. In his head, Sherlock started deducing the answer. Molly had wanted him for years, but there had been Tom, though they had broken up just after John and Mary's wedding, and he had not noticed any other men near her since...

"Nine days," she said decidedly. "I thought it might be eight, but I'm fairly certain it was a Wednesday."

Sherlock simply stared at her, wondering for a moment if he should risk a follow-up question. He couldn't stop himself. "How long before that?"

"The night before that night." Now Sherlock looked shocked. She rarely saw him look shocked. She rolled her eyes. "It was the same guy, Sherlock. No one you know, just a friend from university and we hook up every so often." He had backed all the way to the other side of the bed now. "Adults have sex, Sherlock. Despite the fawning I've done over you and you ritually ignoring me, I'm well aware that I'm a good-looking woman and to be honest, most men don't take any persuading." Molly did not reach out for him. She let him shelter behind a pillow and stare at her with rapidly narrowing eyes. It was bad enough he had always felt the need to belittle her, but to suggest that she should never have had faith in herself was a bit much. "I was tongue-tied and awkward around you, Sherlock, a bit star-struck. But I'm not like that with everyone, well with anyone else, really."

Sherlock scooted back another few inches on the bed, then swung his legs over the side and sat up. He ran into his Mind Palace, created a room across the corridor from Molly's room, walked in and shut the door behind him. "Need to think," he said out loud, rising to walk away from the bed. He felt something hit him in the back of the head, and he came immediately back to the present. He head felt wet. He look down at his feet, where a now-empty acrylic water cup lay, and over to Molly, who had clearly just thrown it at him.

"Oh, no!" she yelled at him, rising to her knees on the bed. "I know you have a hard time with social niceties, but you _do not_ ask a woman about her sexual history and then storm off when the answer isn't to your liking. You do not imply that I've been a slut." She could see him gearing up to deny it. "Yes, you did."

He dropped back down onto the bed and let his hand settle behind her head. He kissed her. "I suppose it's a good thing that one of us knows what she's doing," he smiled.

Molly raised an eyebrow. "On the basis of the last couple of hours, I would say you either have sufficient experience or learn extraordinarily quickly." She ran her hand down his chest and over his nipples. "Do you want me tell you that you were the best sex I've had? Because that's true. You were worth the wait." She began kissing down his jawline and throat. Her voice dropped to a sultry drawl. "You're not going to make me wait again, are you?"

Sherlock had shaken his head. In Molly's hospital bed, he could feel himself getting hard just thinking about where Molly had kissed next, how she'd started licking and sucking and making him grateful to whichever man before him had taught her all of this. Realtime Sherlock snapped out of his remembering. He knew he could not be next to her and dreaming about her mouth while she was hooked up to a heartrate monitor. He eased himself out of the bed and into the chair at her side.

Molly had barely shifted, still deep in the fog of tranquilizers. John made it to back to her room by lunchtime, only to find Sherlock slumped in the chair by Molly's bed. He was still wearing the same dark blue suit from last night and his only concession to comfort had been loosening his red, silk necktie a bit. John could tell that Sherlock had spent the night thinking. The detective's fingers were tented beneath his chin as he stared emptily at Molly's right hand.

Sherlock spoke as soon as John shut the door behind him and sat down in the other empty chair at Molly's bedside. "I should leave her, John."

John dropped his head back into his hands. He spoke straight down to the floor in exasperation. "You've spent all night thinking, considering the situation from all angles, and your conclusion is that your should dump the woman you love while she's unconscious in hospital?" He hazarded a glance at Sherlock. "I used the words 'love' and 'girlfriend' several times last night, and you didn't so much as flinch. You didn't correct me. I have never seen you take a romantic interest in anyone..." John paused and thought about this. "I don't know if you've ever loved another human being in a romantic way. Possibly not. And I can only assume you want to get away because you believe you'll hurt Molly? You're at least thinking this because you want to protect her?"

Sherlock shifted in his chair. He should have known that John would be able to deduce emotional reactions faster than he could. "She's not safe with me."

"She's a damn sight safer with you than without you," John said. "We all are."

"Really? How many international hitmen were looking to strap Semtex to your chest or murder your girlfriends before you met me?"

John nodded. "Fewer," he admitted. "But that's my decision to make. And it's Molly's decision to make. Have you asked her how she feels?"

Sherlock gestured to the bed in front of him as though John were an idiot. "She's not been much for talking over the last twelve hours. The doctors reckon it will be several more before she's even aware I'm in the room. She probably feels like she's been attacked. Again. Because of me."

John leaned back in his chair and looked his friend in the eyes. "You can't leave her. Neither of you want that. So you're going to have to come up with a better solution. Stop wasting time thinking about how to leave her and start thinking about how to protect her and make life with you possible. That's what she'll want." John stood up. "I'm going to go find us some food. You need to eat. Coffee?"

Sherlock didn't hear. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and started texting. He didn't even notice John leave the room. His mind was already full of plans to make Molly safe, and the best decisions could be made while Molly herself was too out of it to protest.

...

Molly first blinked open her right eye, then shut it against the light in the dim room. She tried again, managing to hold it open, before she eased open the left. Wherever she was, it felt remarkably comfortable. She sighed, sliding her hands over rich sheets and wriggling into the cloud of the mattress. Molly turned instinctively to her left and began snuggling against Sherlock; it took her a moment to register than she'd known he was there because she could detect his distinctive scent. She nestled her head onto his chest, and felt his arms pull her closer. She smiled to herself.

Sherlock didn't say anything to her. Not unusual. She didn't appear to be in her bed, which was unusual. She didn't seem to be able to focus beyond the edge of the bed, which was also unusual.

"Sherlock?" Oh, her voice sounded odd. Grating. Dry.

"Shhhh, you need some water." He leaned over to fetch a glass off the nightstand. She raised her head from his chest and took a few tentative sips. "John! She's awake," she heard him call out. Molly felt him kiss her forehead and lay her back down on the pillows.

"Molly!" John called cheerily, which seemed incredibly loud. She flinched. John sat on the bed next to her and flashed a light into her eyes. He took her pulse. He pulled out a blood pressure cuff and started taking a reading before she managed to question all of this.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Did something happen to me?"

"We were at a party, at the Savoy. We were trying to identify some people Mycroft had been tracking. Someone slipped something into your drink and you passed out. For 27 hours and 13 minutes. Roughly."

Molly's eyes went a bit wider. John patted her arm and removed the blood pressure cuff. "Your blood pressure is a bit low but that's to be expected. I'm going to make you some sweet tea, okay? You need the fluids and sugar." He pressed a kiss to her cheek and looked at her fondly. "I'm glad you're back with us." Then he walked away.

Molly started to focus. "Where are we?"

"Ah, that." Sherlock said. "John and I discharged you from Barts and brought you here to Baker Street. You're in my room. When it became obvious that you just needed to sleep off the tranquilizers and weren't in any greater danger, we thought you'd be more comfortable here."

"You discharged me from hospital while I was unconscious? How..." she stopped. Her head suddenly hurt so much she couldn't speak.

Sherlock helped her sit up and pressed three pills into her hands. He gave her back the glass of water and told her to take them. "It's just codeine and paracetamol," he assured her. "It will get you past the headaches."

Molly nodded and swallowed the drugs. John returned with her tea and set it down on the table at the side of the bed.

"Headache?" John asked, and Molly nodded. "Don't worry, you will feel better in a few hours. It's just the last of the drugs working their way out of your system. And you're slightly dehydrated." John spoke over her to Sherlock, explaining that he should call if she seemed dazed or anxious or if the headache grew worse. Otherwise, she should just rest, drink plenty of clear fluids and eat a bit if possible. She heard the front door click shut behind John as he left the flat. Molly had been to Baker Street plenty of times, but she had never spent the night there and never been in Sherlock's bed. For some reason, over the month they'd been together, they had always been at her flat.

"Are you comfortable?" Sherlock asked. When Molly said she was, Sherlock smiled at her and drew her into his arms again. "I'm glad," he whispered against her. "Because you're staying here for good now."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Thank you to those who have left reviews and favourited/followed. I love hearing your opinions. And hopefully I've got those niggling HTML problems cleared up! :)**_

Molly could remember the party - the fairy lights, the smell of pine and cinnamon, the music, the sound of gowns swishing about the dancefloor - and she could remember the faces of the men and woman they'd been hunting for in the crowd. She could not remember the face of the waiter or waitress who had passed her the drink. Sherlock tried to draw it out of her, but she had no information to retrieve.

"Did anything happen to me while I was out?" she asked nervously.

Sherlock kissed her hair. "No, I was with you every moment until we arrived at the hospital." He stroked her cheek and tilted her face up to his. "Molly, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken you there. I shouldn't have put you in danger. And I certainly should have protected you once I did."

Molly listened, then pulled back out of his grasp. She crossed her legs underneath her and put some space between them on the bed. "And all this guilt - is that why you're trying to kidnap me and force me to live at Baker Street?"

Sherlock startled. "I just asked you to move in with me! I thought you'd be..." he considered saying thrilled, but downgraded at the last moment, "...pleased."

"You didn't ask, though, Sherlock," she pointed out. "You announced."

"Molly," he took both of her hands in his, and she smiled, looking softly into his eyes. "Molly, would you please see the obvious sense and logic of my plan and move into my secure flat, rather than clinging stubbornly to the lonely independence that you've been dying to give up for at least two years, judging by your engagement to Meat Dagger? Would you, Molly, please not fight me on this one, clearly win-win suggestion? I can tell by the way you've narrowed your eyes that you're about to refuse, but I beg you to see sense and reconsider." He stood up and started pacing the room, arms behind his back. "I know I've said entirely the wrong this, but really, woman, no other choice makes any sense! I can keep you safe here."

"Wow," Molly said slowly. "Wow. That... I'm just going to take a moment to recover from the romantic shock of that."

"Romance! Your life is in danger. And you're concerned that I'm not romantic enough." Sherlock stalked out of the bedroom; Molly heard some rough handling going on in the sitting room. He returned with a straggly, pulled apart bouquet of flowers, clearly yanked out a vase in a fury. He dropped to his knees in front of her and proffered the flowers. "Molly, please move in with me."

Molly grabbed the flowers and threw them across the room. She was still feeling a bit weak, so they did not fly any great distance or speed. She spotted her phone on the nightstand and reached out for it, opening the app of a minicab company she sometimes used.

"No, Molly, do not... do not leave here like this. I know I've been an arse, I really do. I have no idea why I couldn't just ask nicely," he tried to find the words that might make her stay.

"You couldn't ask nicely because you're an arse, Sherlock. Even I can deduce that much."

"Please, Molly, you are not well yet. You are not well enough to be alone. Just give me until tomorrow morning to make this up to you. If you're still angry with me, then I'll take you back home," he promised.

Molly gave him a hard stare. She felt faint, if she were honest with herself. If she were not sitting down, she would pass out. She reached for the tea John had brought her and drank it down in one go. She tried to hold her temper. Sherlock had her best interests at heart, he did, but he was so thoroughly convinced of his own intellectual superiority that he did not consider her opinion. No way could she live with that.

"Sherlock, there is only one reason I will move in with you, and you'd best come out with it by tomorrow morning or I'm going back to my flat," she said.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't need until tomorrow morning, Molly. I love you. I love you and I want you to move in with me."

Molly had no idea if that was sincere or not. She really could not judge. He wanted to win the argument so badly that he would have proposed if she had suggested it was the only solution. She rolled her eyes and said, "Meh. I'll stay tonight and see if I believe that tomorrow." She fell back against the soft pillows and closed her eyes. "Do you have any food? I'm starving."

Sherlock gathered himself back up and collected the scattered, wet flowers off the floor of this bedroom. She heard the kitchen bin opening and closing as he tossed them in the rubbish. She listened to the discordant symphony of pots and pans being slammed about in a temper as he put together a meal for her. He returned with chicken and pasta with fresh tomatoes and basil and salt. It was heavenly.

"Can you cook?" she asked quietly.

"No one else was in the kitchen, Molly," he noted.

She chewed thoughtfully. "I'll add that to the 'pro' column when I weigh up your suggestion tomorrow." She handed him back the empty plate. "I need a toothbrush and a bath, please." Sherlock pointed across the hallway. He watched her walk across to the bathroom, wearing only one of his old t-shirts that he'd dressed her in when they arrived back from the hospital. He decided that he needed to ring John - or perhaps Mary - to find out how to get Molly to do what he wanted her to do.

...

After a few fitful half-starts at sleep, Molly had slipped back under his duvet and passed out in the early evening. Her hair spread across his pillow and her breathing sounded soft, natural and beautifully undrugged. He sat upright on the bed next to her, unable to sleep and unable to leave her. Every so often, he reached down to count her pulse. 74 bpm, unchanged since 10.30pm.

He noticed the scent of perfume - a very specific perfume, and very specifically not Molly's - a full nine minutes before he said anything about it. He kept his eyes closed and waited for the scent to grow stronger, nearer. When it did, and he could hear a soft footstep as well, he opened his eyes to exactly the point in the room where he knew she'd be.

"Oh, Sherlock, she is stunning," Irene Adler sighed, smiling at Molly's sleeping form. "Not the boring sort of beauty I feared might appeal to you. Empty aesthetics. No, this one is lit from within, even asleep. What must she look like at the very moment of her greatest pleasure... oh, Sherlock, you must let me..." Irene advanced, stretching a impeccably manicured hand to Molly, "she is too exquisite."

"Hands off, her, woman," Sherlock nearly growled.

"Ah, but you must allow Molly that choice. I might appeal to her. Mm, that's right. You're not comfortable with Molly making decisions," Irene shrugged. She leaned down, her black leather bra visible beneath her coat, and placed a gentle kiss on Molly's lips. A smudge of red lipstick remained on Molly's bottom lip. Irene flicked her tongue out over the smudge and then ran her thumb very softly over the lip. Irene gave a little gasp of surprise and widened her eyes. "Soft and perfectly plump. You do take forever to pick someone, Sherlock, but what a choice." Irene traced just barely over Molly's nipple, which hardened instantly beneath her finger. Molly sighed happily in her sleep and smiled. "Bravo, darling."

Sherlock reached out and caught the offending wrist. "I would prefer that you neither sexually stimulate nor wake my girlfriend."

Irene raised a practiced eyebrow at him. "Girlfriend? Why, Sherlock, I never thought I'd see the day." She walked around the bed and pulled a chair up to Sherlock's side of the bed. "And not even a happy-to-see-you? A lovely-you're-not-dead?" Irene unbuttoned her coat halfway, enough to reveal that she wasn't wearing a blouse over the bra.

"Don't you have a client waiting? Some politician is in need of a spanking somewhere, surely."

"Always," Irene smiled. "But I find I have some information to pass on. Two murders, the police know nothing of them. Both young women. Both with that exquisite, almost virginal look - you know, long hair, lovely bodies all covered up in nondescript clothing, minimal make-up - not obvious beauties, but beauties nonetheless." Irene looked up at Sherlock as though she had suddenly realised something important. "They were just your type, I think."

"Where? How?"

"One near Shoreditch, the other not far from Angel. Within the last week. Both were cut - I don't really want to go into details - but there was something ritualistic about it." Irene reached inside her coat and produced an envelope, which she handed to Sherlock. "Both girls, they were the lovers of prominent men. Unmarried. One was pregnant, but four months only, I'm not sure if the murderers would have known that."

"You knew them."

"Oh, yes. I did. I knew them both. Not prostitutes, no. They were in relationships with these men. I know, because I was in a relationship of sorts with the men, too. These girls were clean, legitimate... _girlfriends_."

Sherlock winced slightly at the word. His hand went back down to Molly's pulse point and he began unconsciously counting again in his head.

"You'll look into it?" Irene asked, standing and buttoning her coat again. Not quite all the way up.

"Of course," Sherlock agreed quietly.

Irene rounded the bed again and stood looking down at Molly. She traced her fingers down Molly's jaw, her neck, along her breasts, until the duvet blocked her exploration. She leaned down and placed a lingering kiss at the exposed swell of Molly's breast. "Take good care of her, Sherlock." Irene disappeared out the bedroom door.

"It's lovely you're alive," Sherlock called after her softly.

He heard a faint laugh as the door to 221b closed behind her.

Sherlock sent another text to Mycroft. He wanted extra security placed around Baker Street from tomorrow morning.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock and Mycroft stood over Molly's lightly snoring self, one brother on each side of the bed, arguing via text. They'd begun the argument verbally, in whispers, but as the disagreement escalated and the insults ratcheted up, so did the volume, and they had started texting to avoid waking the object of their fight.

 _ **Just keep her here. She doesn't weigh anything and I can't imagine she's a secret martial arts expert. How hard can it be?**_

 _I cannot lock a woman in my flat against her will, Mycroft. Even if that's the approach you take with all of yours._

 _ **She is not safe. Does she not comprehend the danger? And I have not locked anyone in. Not recently.**_

 _She's been asleep ever since The Woman left last night, you utter fuckwit. I didn't wake her up to show her a series of gruesome photos. I'm a selfish arse that way._

 _ **Swearing, really Sherlock? You pathetic little civilian. We can drug her and move her to a safe house.**_

Molly awoke to find Sherlock slamming Mycroft into a wall and then trying to haul his brother out the door of the bedroom by means of his expensive silk necktie. When she gased, both men backed a step away from each other. They stood up straight and began to smooth out their clothing. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair.

Mycroft recovered first: "Molly, darling, how are you feeling?"

Sherlock snorted with derision: " _Darling_? I doubt that sounds convincing even if you're inside a woman when you say it."

Molly watched the brothers, her gaze flicking between one and the other. She wanted to believe that Sherlock was somehow protecting her from Mycroft, but if she were honest with herself, she had to admit it could go the other way, too. She sat up in the bed and folded her legs beneath her, carefully sliding the duvet over her lap as she seemed to be wearing nothing more than Sherlock's t-shirt.

"What's going on?" she demanded, hoping she'd managed to slip a note of command into her voice. The t-shirt, far too large, was slipping off her shoulder and she tried to pull it back up in a way that still looked authoritative. She felt that she was not succeeding.

"We're concerned that a serial killer is targeting women who fit your general type..." Mycroft began.

Sherlock immediately resumed violently removing his brother from the room. She heard yelling and swearing from the front room, then a door slamming. She knew that Sherlock was taking a moment to compose himself before he walked back in, as it took him several beats too long to re-enter the bedroom. So when he did, she pounced.

"Serial killer? What the hell, Sherlock? What's going on?"

Sherlock crawled back into bed next to her. He was already dressed for the day. She fumbled for her phone and checked the time: 11.28am. "You should have woken me. I've slept half the day away."

Sherlock shook his head. "You needed to sleep."

"Sherlock, I've been sleeping for the most of the last two days. I do not need more. Now, please, for the third time, tell me why you're trying to murder your brother in front of me."

He leaned in to kiss her, pulling her close and slipping his hand beneath the t-shirt. He dragged his fingertips slowly up and down her back on both sides of her spine. He bit gently on her bottom lip to encourage her to open up for him. She steadfastly refused.

"You are trying to distract me with sex. It won't work," she said.

"It will if I try hard enough," he gambled.

Sherlock sighed and rolled off the bed, rising gracefully to his feet. He held out his hands to her and pulled her up next to him. "Are you hungry? I've been out all morning and I'm famished. Come have some food and I'll tell you everything."

Molly began following him to the kitchen, but responded: "No, you won't. You never tell me everything. You tell me bits of everything and leave out what you don't want me to know."

He stopped short in the corridor, so quickly that she bumped into his back with her forehead.

"Ow, for God's sake, Sherlock..."

He whipped around and watched her, trying to deduce her, as Molly stood and stared back crossly, rubbing her head where it had collided with his shoulder blade. "You don't trust me," he said finally.

"Don't be dramatic, Sherlock. I know you don't tell me everything, but I also know that you do that to protect me and that you would never hurt me. You might lie to me, but you wouldn't hurt me." She considered her own words. "That's fairly messed up, isn't it? I suppose that's the sort of thing that's going to cause problems in the long run."

Sherlock dropped his in defeat, resting it against her forehead, which caused her to grimace in pain. "I will tell you everything. I'm sorry - I'm trying. I'm not used to trusting anyone else like this, not even John. I have grown used to lying to John."

"This may be the moment to mention that I'm not John," she kissed him again, deeply. "Not John at all. Now do you want to show me what was in those photos The Woman handed to you?"

Sherlock looked up sharply. "How do you know about the photos? Or The Woman?"

Molly produced his mobile phone from behind her back. "I didn't spend all this time with you and not learn how to steal a phone. And your code is the date you saved me from Sebastian Moran. Very romantic." She nipped delicately at his earlobe. "I read your exchange with Mycroft. You're not going to let him drug me and kidnap me, are you?"

He shook his head and smiled. "No, of course not."

Molly curled into John's chair and Sherlock sat in his and spread the photos across the floor between them. Molly sucked in her breath. Pretty young women, one who looked to be in her early 20s, the other in her early 30s, both dressed in formal white frocks, both soaked in blood. "Where are the bodies?" she gasped.

Sherlock nodded. That would be her first question. She would want to see the evidence, know how they died.

"I went to Angel this morning. That's why Mycroft was here. I wanted someone to watch over you while I went to see the body. Her name was Angie Banks, and she was dating Ramon Siddes, a..."

"The footballer. Right," Molly nodded. "He's quiet, never in the spotlight, never in trouble, but incredibly famous. Wealthy. You don't see him the paper much, keeps himself to himself. And her to himself, I assume."

"Lestrade spoke to him today. Actually," Sherlock broke off to address Molly directly, "I'm surprised you knew who he was."

"You're probably the only person in England over the age of 4 who didn't know who he was, Sherlock."

"Oh. Well, anyway, Lestrade said he was in shock, heartbroken, sobbing - he used quite a lot of emotional hyberbole that really meant little to the case. Watertight alibi, though - and he hadn't even realised she was missing by the time the body was found. She was... drugged and then sliced up, very methodically."

"Cause of death?"

"That awaits the pathology report. Her body is at Barts, awaiting the pathologist."

Molly raised her eyebrows. "You didn't want to show me the photos, but you sent me the body?"

"I knew I would show you the photos, Molly. I would not have kept this from you."

Molly considered this. "So why did Irene Adler show up last night? What's her involvement?"

"I'm not entirely certain of her involvement, but I know why she wanted to involve me."

"You gonna tell me or just leave me with a dramatic cliffhanger of a sentence?" Molly asked.

"You," Sherlock answered. "She wanted to warn me because of you."

He reached over to pick up one of the newspapers stacked on the coffee table. He spread it out and handed it over for her perusal. On the front page, down the margin with the celebrity gossip, was a photograph of she and Sherlock. The photo was a bit grainy - long-lens, low light - but clearly showed them snogging voraciously at the Savoy party. Molly was propped up on table with a mirror behind her; Sherlock had one hand in her hair and another on her thigh, her legs were spread around him and just a hint of the jeweled clip that held up her stockings was visible. Sherlock had his fingers on the clip. Molly closed her eyes and thanked the limitations of modern photography that Sherlock had been positioned in a way that kept her knickers from view.

Molly stared at the photo for a moment. She wasn't sure just quite what she was meant to feel, so she just said the first thing that came to mind: "We look hot."

Sherlock raised an intrigued eyebrow at her. "I rather thought so as well." He shifted in his seat. "But that's also why The Woman thought you might be in danger." He pulled a magazine clipping from the envelope that had contained the photos of the dead women. It dated from a month ago, and showed Angie Banks on her knees in front of a clearly delighted Ramon Siddes. They were just inside a holiday flat, somewhere warm and sunny, obviously believing themselves to be alone and unobserved. This time the light was good and the photo was graphic, nothing obscuring the view of Bank's lips around what was pretty clearly his cock. "The newspapers carried a censored version of the photo... "

"Yes," Molly interrupted. "I remember it, of course."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, you'll know about the celebrity drivel." He shrugged. "The second woman, Layla Abdul, was the girlfriend of Jonathan Carrell, a Tory politician running for London mayor. Not a mistress, just a girlfriend - he's not married. They had been together for 2 years, an established couple. Two weeks ago, the papers printed this..." he handed her another clipping. Abdul topless, her back to the camera, kissing an equally topless Carrell, alone in a London back garden.

"Okay, I see the connection... young women, not your typical spray-tanned, siliconed tabloid fodder, girlfriends of famous or powerful men, unmarried. But you and I, we were in a public place, with no reasonable expectation of privacy..." she huffed. "We were kissing as a ruse, to scout the room."

"But it wasn't _just_ a ruse, was it? What the cameras caught was true enough; we look 'hot', as you so crudely put it, because we are in a sexual relationship," he fumed. "The Woman is worried that this sort of publicity could make you a target of whoever murdered these women."

Molly felt like this was an enormous leap of logic, and one Sherlock might use to manipulate her into staying at Baker Street, as he had announced last night before any of this had come to light. "What else do you know of this case?"

"Not enough. You'll take a look at the bodies. Lestrade recovered Abdul's body from a small graveyard in Shoreditch. The scene had been photographed and cleaned before I could get there. They didn't know about Banks until I told them."

Molly gathered up the photos from the floor and carefully tucked them back into the envelope. She set it aside and leaned back in the chair. "Tell me that you're not fabricating a connection between me and these women because you want me to stay here with you."

Sherlock stiffened. "I am not. I _would not_." His voice raised slightly. "I have instructed Mycroft to increase security around you and around this flat. If you still want to return home, then he can provide security for you there. He has a car and driver, all vetted, that can ferry you about until we have caught whoever did this." Sherlock leaned forward and held out his hands to her. She reached out to put her hands in his, and he pulled her into his lap. "Molly, what I said last night is completely true. I love you. Please do not leave. It's safer for you here, and I want to have you here. Please stay."

Molly brought her face close and brushed her lips against his. "I love you, too. For now, I'll stay." Sherlock exhaled and closed his eyes. "Now, let's get dressed and get to the morgue. I have two bodies to inspect."

Sherlock stood up, picking Molly up with him. He let her slide slowly down his body until her feet touched the ground.

"Tell me," Molly held up yesterday's paper with the photo of she and Sherlock at the party, "Is there a larger version of this picture?"

"Daily Mail, page 6. I already cut it out. It's in the drawer of my nightstand if you want to borrow it," Sherlock smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock bent his head down over his knees. He fought against the rising nausea. Lifting his eyes to watch Molly at work, he tried to control his reaction; she chattered softly over the body, making notes, inspecting finger nails, lifting hands and feet. Everything in Mollyland looked utterly normal, nothing to worry about, perfectly comfortable in her familiar workspace at St Bart's. Her hair was tied back, she was wearing a denim skirt with a lab coat over the top, just casually dressed in one of the items he had brought over from her flat to 221B. He had only brought skirts, despite the weather. She had complained and bought thick cotton tights at a branch of M&S on the way to St Bart's. But now watching her meticulously record the injuries and cause of death of Angie Banks, 24, who was four months pregnant with her boyfriend's child at the time of her death, now Sherlock wanted to vomit.

Molly did not observe what he did.

Molly saw a stranger, a young female whom she did not know personally and to whom she had no connection. This stranger had been murdered, clearly, about 36 hours before. Molly was waiting for the tox report to find out precisely what drugs had been in her system. Sherlock, who had been at the crime scene, had already deduced that she had been drugged before her death. The cuts, Molly assured him, mainly took place after her death. They appeared ritualistic in nature: a pentagram, a carefully-carved, 8-sided star and a series of initials that Molly was currently cataloguing. Only the star had been cut into Angie Banks while she lived, but it was deep, and it would have hurt, unless she had been rendered unconscious by the drugs.

Sherlock did not need a tox report to tell him about the cocktail of drugs – rohypnol chief among them – that had killed Banks and caused her to miscarry her baby just before her death (he had suspected this at the crime scene, and Molly had confirmed it minutes ago). He was entirely certain that he had a copy of the exact contents in his coat pocket, handed to him by a cowed lab assistant at Bart's while Molly was still lying asleep on a hospital bed and hooked up to a heartrate monitor. Molly had been slipped the same drugs, and only the fact that she had drunk only part of it, while standing next to him rather than wandering off into the party in search of the missing suspect, only that detail meant it wasn't Molly laid out on the slab.

So Molly saw a stranger's body before her, but Sherlock saw Molly's body. Clear as day. He could feel what he would feel if it were her, if the killer or killers had managed to carry her out of that party instead of him and his brother, if they had murdered his child along with Molly (where had that come from? Molly was not pregnant). He tried to tamp down the panic and revulsion; he did not want to worry her. She had not seen her own tox report. Sherlock had managed to distract her so successfully that she had not thought to ask.

Sherlock's mind spun. How could he protect her? She needed to be nothing like the victims; she needed to lack whatever essential element those women had in common. Girlfriends, Irene Adler had told him. That's it, he thought, the nausea clearing instantly. And having had the thought, he could not keep it to himself.

"Molly, you must marry me. Will you marry me?" he blurted out.

Molly dropped the scalpel she'd been holding. It landed with a thud on the table next to Banks' body, then skittered off and hit the floor, narrowly missing Molly's foot. She paid it no attention. She made no answer, simply staring at him. He repeated the question.

"Molly, I love you. Will you marry me?"

Molly closed her eyes. She dropped her head as though ducking an oncoming punch, letting her biceps take her weight as her body dipped slightly. She gripped tightly onto the stainless steel table in front of her.

"Marry you." She looked over at him. "What a strange 48 hours it has been, Sherlock. First, you have us moving in together, which I have not agreed to. And now we're getting married."

"So _will_ you marry me?"

Molly stared at him. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, then opened it again to answer: "No, Sherlock, I will not marry you."

"Is it because I've asked in a morgue? No ring? Lack of properly romantic setting?"

Molly picked the scalpel back up off the floor and rolled her shoulders to relieve the tension. "Sherlock, you could have proposed in the rose garden in Regent's Park, with a full orchestra behind you, on bended knee with your grandmother's ring, and I would still have said no."

"You would have, wouldn't you?" he said, gazing at her, deducing her. "I could arrange all of that and test your prediction."

Tilting her head back down over Banks' torso, she continued dictating: "No wounds that would have caused death or even significant bleeding. Victim miscarried, but this looks to have been chemically induced as the blood flow was in line with the use of mifepristone as a medical abortifacient. There is no obvious trauma that would have caused miscarriage…"

She stopped dictating when she felt Sherlock standing over her, crowding her, forcing her to take a stop away from the body. Without looking up at him, she warned, "I'm holding a sharp knife, Sherlock. Stop trying to intimidate me."

He stepped closer, his chin against her forehead. "Why won't you marry me? You love me."

She carefully leaned forward to set the scalpel down again. She snapped off the latex gloves and set them next to the scalpel. Brushing her hands against her lab coat, she squared up to him as best she could given the height differential. "I'd ask if we absolutely have to do this right now, but clearly we do." She lightly pushed him away from her half a step. "There's no need to crowd me. I won't marry you for the same reason that I will not move in with you. I may love you, but this relationship is very new. You first kissed me only a month ago. That is not enough time to make such a life-altering decision. You run hot and cold with many things, Sherlock. I need to know a lot more about you, but most importantly I need to know you won't drop me the minute I bore you." She took a deep breath. It actually felt good to say that out loud. "And I will bore you eventually."

"No, you won't, and you don't understand. I don't need any more time. My mind is made up and I will not change it. I love you and I want you with me always and I will never feel differently. I waited until I was prepared to marry you before I kissed you. I was ready to have you move in with me from long before I actually kissed you. I haven't rushed anything, quite the opposite." Sherlock moved his hands across her cheeks and dipped them into the hair at the back of her head, turning her face up to him. "We've been in a relationship for ages. What does it matter what the catalyst is for the actual moment that we marry? It's a foregone conclusion that we will."

Molly both melted at Sherlock expressing this depth of emotion and raged that he had her moved in and married without once asking for her opinion on any of it.

"Communication, Sherlock. For one thing, you need to learn how to communicate. And the catalyst, that you're afraid I will be a target of this killer, does matter to me. I don't want to move in with you or get married under duress."

Sherlock huffed in frustration, then pulled her into a tight hug against his chest. Her feet left the floor in his enthusiasm. He was still clutching her to him, breathing in the calming, floral scent of her hair, when they heard an embarrassed cough by the door to the morgue.

"Umm, Dr Hooper, I have the tox report you asked for." The intern set the papers down on the nearest table and backed quickly towards the door as Sherlock glared at him. Molly kicked lightly until he set her down, and she picked up the lab results.

"Mifepristone, misoprostol… well, that explains the miscarriage, as we suspected," Molly read. "Flunitrazepam…"

Sherlock held up a hand to stop her. "Here, look at this." He unfolded a paper in his coat pocket and pushed it across the table to her.

"My god, it's almost the same drugs," she said. "Oh my god, this is my blood test…"

Sherlock nodded. "It's only missing the misoprostol, as that is supposed to be administered two days after the mifepristone to induce abortion. Maybe they planned to give that to you later…"

"I'm not pregnant…"

"No, but whoever took these women, and tried to take you, wanted to make sure that you weren't, so they took precautions." He held Molly close again. "Do you understand why I'm worried?"

Molly understood. It didn't change her response – she was not moving in with him – but it did make her more sympathetic to his distress and frustration and fear. "I'll stay with you for now," she nodded against his chest. "Thank you."

Sherlock smiled and grinned at her, then pulled her lips against his for a deep, passionate kiss. She felt so safe in his arms, like he would do anything at all to keep her from harm.

Sherlock's phone began buzzing and vibrating. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Lestrade.

 **We have another body. Female, no obvious trauma. Hyde Park Corner tube. Coming?**

 ** _On my way_** , he typed.

"It's Lestrade, there's been another one. Come with me?" he asked Molly.

She squeezed his hand and nodded.

...

Back at Baker Street, Molly sat curled into herself in Sherlock's chair. She felt better there, calmer, while he made her a cup of tea to warm up. Seeing dead bodies in the morgue, cleaned and laid out and clinical, was completely different to seeing them stretched out in a tiny graveyard, dressed all in white and in the position they had died in. Sherlock had determined that the woman died there, amongst tiny tombstones of a secret pet cemetery. The same markings and similar initials were carved into her body. Molly had walked to the gates of the small, Victorian graveyard and put her head against the cool iron railings while Sherlock scoured the crime scene for evidence. Donovan had eventually noticed her and given her a supportive squeeze around the shoulders, handed her a tissue.

Molly saw what he saw. She saw herself. It was all the simpler because the body has been laid out across the grave of a pet cat, and the woman in question had mid-brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. Now Molly wanted to vomit.

Sherlock came back into the sitting room with her tea, set it down on a low table and then lifted Molly up out of the chair with ease. He sat down himself and pulled Molly into his lap. He secured his arms around her and settled her head against his shoulder.

"It's not that I just need to have you move in," he explained slowly. "I'll need to have you physically connected to me now until this case is solved. Sorry, but I must insist. If you go to the refrigerator, I go with you. If you…"

Molly cut him off with a kiss, threading her fingers into his hair. "Okay," she said softly. "Whatever you say. For now." She thought for a moment. "Is the body at Bart's?"

"Yes, we can head over in an hour and take a look. The toxicology report will be ready when we get there," Sherlock informed her. He kissed her back, licking against her bottom lip and biting gently. When Molly responded by stroking her tongue deeper into his mouth, Sherlock slipped his hand beneath her wool jumper. He moved his fingers up her abdomen, tracing slow circles into her skin, until he found her breast. He eased aside the silky fabric of her bra and massaged his fingers over her nipple. He leaned Molly back across the arm of the chair and pulled the jumper over her head. His lips sought out a nipple while his hands reached around to unclasp her bra. Before she knew it, he had the objectionable tights off as well, and his fingers were brushing aside her knickers and exploring between her legs. Molly sighed and let her legs fall open for him. He stroked gently across her clit and let a finger push in to gather some of her wetness. He slid it back across her clit, rubbing endless circles against her while his tongue did the same to her hardened nipple.

From her position on his lap, Molly could feel Sherlock hardening himself against the small of her back. She quickly stood up and unbuttoned the denim skirt, letting it fall at his feet. With a smile, she dropped to her knees in front of him and began to unbutton his trousers. She slid them down over his hips and leaned her face against his lap, lapping small, teasing licks against his length. Sherlock felt his breath hitch, and her tongue felt soft and warm and wet against him, stimulating every nerve ending. He watched her lick away a droplet of pre-cum and slide her pink lips around the tip of his cock. He sighed in deep satisfaction as she began sucking, soft and insistent, taking more and more of him into her mouth and throat. She reached one hand beneath his cock, cradling his balls in her hand. But suddenly, the image of Angie Banks on her knees before Ramon Siddes flared in his brain. He inhaled in shock, sitting up slightly taller in his chair. He pulled a confused Molly off his cock and into his lap.

"I want to fuck you," he murmured to her, to cover his distraction. Molly gave him a wide grin. She brought her legs around his hips as he lined himself up. He lifted his hips and breached her easily. Molly closed her eyes and moaned, sinking herself all the way down on top of him. She moved a bit faster, fucking him deep into her cunt. He slid against her walls, the friction delicious. They shifted until they found the angle that had Sherlock's cockhead crashing into her g-spot again and again. He watched himself fucking her, his cock slick with her arousal, thrusting upwards into her harder and faster. Molly's fingers circled her clit as he gripped both her hips in his hands, forcing her down onto length. She began chanting his name; he bucked faster, dragging inside of her, sucking a nipple into his mouth and pulling hard on it with his lips and teeth. Molly cried out her orgasm and he drove her through it, finally pumping himself into her with a shout and spilling deep into her centre.

Molly curled against his chest with a smile, placing kisses across his shoulders and neck, her breasts heaving against his chest as they both panted from the exertion.

Sherlock wound his arms completely around her, pulling her so close that he hoped that she would never move again from that spot on his lap. He hoped that she wouldn't sense his fear and desperation as he kissed her hair and held her tight. She seemed happy and sated and calm. He didn't want her to sense that his heartrate wasn't just elevated from the sex, but from terror.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock had not been euphemistic about being physically connected to her at all times. Molly supposed she had found it romantic for the first few days, maybe even the first week. He showered with her (essential, he insisted, also soapy and sexy and thus acceptable to her); he followed her from room to room; he stood next to the kettle while she made tea, his chin resting on her shoulder; he read her forensics journals with his legs spread over her lap as they sat on the sofa; and he slept tangled up with her every night (this, she didn't mind). She wasn't allowed near the windows and had to ask him to open one if she wanted some air. If she left the flat, she required his arm around her at all times and at least two of Mycroft's agents trailing them. Even the tabloids grew bored of pictures of Sherlock with his arm around Molly's waist; in public, he never had it any other bloody place, she fumed. He trailed through the food hall of John Lewis with his hand in her coat pocket. She tried throwing tinned goods to him, but he just caught them with one hand and dropped them in the basket, refusing to relinquish his hold and staring at her with amused determination.

After 17 days of being watched over by Sherlock, quite literally every minute of every day, Molly was going spare. She tried to hide from him but couldn't make it past the threshold of a room without his shadow. She considered drugging him, but just couldn't do that to an addict whom she loved.

Sherlock pulled Molly along behind him as he worked, in and out of Greg's office at New Scotland Yard, following every tip about the women's murderers. Now Greg was sitting on the sofa at Baker Street, leaned forward intently over his knees, arguing the significance of the locations where the three bodies had been found.

"North in Angel, west at Hyde Park, east at Shoreditch – we're worried about south, one more murder, and it was supposed to be Molly," Greg asserted, not for the first or even the fifth time. Molly wished that she could leave the room and get on with some reading elsewhere, but no, Sherlock had pulled John's chair alongside his and had his fingers linked between hers.

Sherlock gaped at Greg, as if unable to believe anyone could be so irrationally thick. "An 8-point star and a five-point star on every body… why do you think these killers are only looking to murder four people? If they are recreating a map, then I think a pentagram is more likely, but the 8-point star seems to have significance as that is carved while the victims are still alive."

"All the bodies have been discovered on unconsecrated ground, all in white, all unmarried women who are being drugged into miscarriage on the off chance they're pregnant… it's clearly some sort of cult," Greg continued over the same ground they had covered for the last 17 days. Molly wanted to cry with frustration.

Sherlock's phone and Greg's buzzed text alerts simultaneously. As one, they both pulled phones out of the jacket pockets and then looked at her. "Another body," Sherlock breathed.

"Bunhill cemetery," Greg added, standing. He stood up and pulled on his leather gloves.

"That's Old Street, hardly south," Sherlock pointed out. "This is not the last. There will be more than four."

Sherlock released Molly's hand momentarily to snag her coat off the back of the door. He held it open for her in clear expectation; Molly sighed and approached Sherlock, turning to let him help her on with the thick woolen coat. When he spun her back around by the shoulders and started doing up the buttons like she was in nursery, she batted his hands away. "Yeah, I got this," she snapped. He raised an eyebrow at her but simply pulled his own coat off the peg and pulled it around him. His arm snaked around her to its familiar position on her hip. Her eyes pleaded with Greg to put her out of her misery.

Greg smiled and held out his arm. Molly eagerly looped her arm through his and started towards the stairs. She was pulled up short by Sherlock's iron grip.

"It's okay, Sherlock, I've got her," Greg placated him. "I promise I won't let anyone snatch her on the way to the squad car parked outside."

Sherlock's eyes flashed something a bit uncomfortable in her direction, but Molly tried not to notice. She gave him a big, open smile and tilted her head to one side to convey sincerity. "Sherlock, it's fine, we're just walking down to the stairs." She honestly wasn't trying to make him jealous, but she hoped that Greg might let her go and just stay close, rather than insisting she be touching him continuously. Sherlock swept out of the door ahead of them without a word. When he rounded the landing of the stairs, Greg dropped his arm and let her go. She rolled her shoulders and stretched at the freedom. Greg laughed and said, "I'll allow you your freedom down the stairs, but he'll kill me if I step out the door of the flat without a solid hold on you."

Molly smiled. "He looked like he might kill you for touching me at all."

They both trod down the stairs, Molly enjoying her temporary freedom, until they rounded the landing themselves and ran into Sherlock, waiting with an impatient foot tapping and an accusatory glare. "Neither of you taking this seriously. We are going to view the body of another woman who has been murdered and it could have been you," Sherlock reached out for Molly's hand, and she gave it to him willingly. "I know it's frustrating and limiting, but you're still breathing and she's not."

Greg slid past them on the stairs and left Molly to close the distance with Sherlock, laying her hand on his chest and pressing her lips to his neck. "I'm sorry, you're right of course," she leaned her head against his shoulder. "This has got to be hellish annoying for you, too, and I'm not making the situation any easier. I am scared, Sherlock, and angry and cross about that. I can't be easy to live with right now, especially when you can't escape."

Sherlock pinned her with his gaze. "Easy is not a concern. I just want you safe. I will do whatever it takes, for as long as it takes."

She held his hand thankfully all the way to the backseat of the squad car.

…

Irene Adler appeared from nowhere at Bunhill Gardens, like a ghost from the ancient gravestones. She carried a bouquet of lilies and stepped as close to the body as the police tape would allow. Sherlock was crouched near the body, sifting for evidence while gripping tight to Molly's left hand. He looked up from his study of the victim's fingernails and surveyed Irene. She was dressed almost demurely in a white wool coat and soft green scarf and long black boots; she had twisted her hair into a softer bun, and looked like nothing more than a grieving relative. A wealthy grieving relative, given the diamonds visible in her ears and on her right wrist.

Irene ignored Sherlock altogether, moving instead to Molly, who was so engrossed in noting down her preliminary findings that she hadn't noticed Irene's arrival on the scene.

"Dr Hooper," Irene drawled sweetly in a voice so calming it could send infants to sleep. She held out one gloved hand to Molly, intending to help her rise. Molly switched her focus from the victim to Irene. The pathologist felt too grimy to take the hand of such a creature. Nevertheless, she reclaimed her left hand from Sherlock and snapped off her latex gloves. She accepted Irene's hand and the older woman pulled her up with a surprising strength. Sherlock didn't seem minded to protest the lack of physical contact with himself.

Irene stepped into Molly's personal space and brushed some leaves and grass from Molly's coat. She reached out and adjusted Molly's hair as well, smoothing her hands over the pathologist's shoulders and arms as she did so. "Lovely Molly, may I call you Molly?" Molly nodded her assent. Irene used the lilies to gesture to the body. "There but for the grace of God…" she began.

Sherlock snorted from next to Molly, having stood up without either of the woman noticing. He had his hand possessively around Molly's waist, pulling her a step away from Irene. "Neither God nor grace has anything to do with your presence here," he said sharply.

Irene looked to Molly imploringly, with tears shining in her eyes, and she took back the step that Sherlock had taken away. "This woman," she nodded to the victim, "was Eliza Cunningham. She was the girlfriend of Jacob Hayes, a well-known and very successful businessman in Liverpool. She has always lived in London; they've been together for over a decade but never shared a home." Irene sniffed slightly. She reached for Molly's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "I knew her quite well. She worked for me once, long ago, long before she met Jacob."

With Sherlock jealously tugging her into his chest from behind and Irene staring quite openly at her mouth in front of her, Molly could almost feel a menage a trois coming on, one that she wanted no part of. Irene was mesmerising. Still, Molly knew when she was being played, having had so very much practice at being played by Sherlock. She raised a skeptical eyebrow at Irene but spoke with compassion. "That's awful. I'm so sorry you've lost a friend. Does Jacob know?"

"I'm not worried about that man, Molly. He was never good enough for Eliza," Irene moved in even closer, her lips almost touching Molly's, her thumb gently caressing Molly's cheek. "I'm worried about you."

Sherlock yanked Molly back a full long stride, causing her to lose her balance and stumble back against him. "Yes, well, that makes two of us. Sorry for your loss. Please give the details to the police, they're right there, bright flashing lights and all that, can't miss them. Good-bye, Woman."

"Sherlock, don't be like that," Irene scolded. "You know you need my information."

"The police, as I said, are right there. They have notepads and recording devices. Talk to Donovan. She's both competent and single, as I don't consider that Andersen actually counts."

Molly struggled free from Sherlock's grasp and pitched forward gracelessly, nearly toppling into Irene. Irene smiled and politely ignored any clumsiness. She put her arm around Molly leaned to whisper in her ear: "I know they've come for you before, but they're coming again."

"Who? Who exactly is doing this?" Molly demanded clearly, unfazed by Irene's closeness.

Irene shook her head, a tear slipping down her cheek. Molly found herself running her own thumb across Irene's perfectly made-up cheek to catch the tear. She was certain that she could hear Sherlock's shocked disapproval.

"I don't know who it is," Irene answered, her voice a bit wobbly. "I feel like I've let these four women down, and now you…"

Irene dropped Molly's hand as Sherlock barged between the two women. "Irene, off to the police now. There's a good dominatrix. Donovan awaits."

Irene stepped back, handing the flowers to Molly. "You'll leave these with Eliza for me?" she asked tearfully.

"Right, yes, of course," Molly nodded.

Sherlock tugged Molly close to his side and placed a small kiss on her neck. "Are you okay?" he asked her softly.

"I feel like a pawn. It's not a particularly pleasant feeling. You won't let go of me, Irene wants to fuck me and some mad cult wants me dead."

"I also want to fuck you," Sherlock added, as though for accuracy. He hugged her tenderly by way of apology for the comment. Then he held up an evidence bag. "Eliza fought back. We may have some DNA from an attacker from under her fingernails and inside her mouth. She bit someone, as well."

Molly placed the bouquet at Eliza's feet. "Thank you, Eliza. We won't let them get away with it. We'll find whoever did this to you," she whispered.

"Let's find Lestrade and get back to Baker Street," Sherlock gently pulled her towards the gates of the cemetery. Molly looked back over her shoulder at Irene, who was giving a statement to Donovan. Irene waved, but the look on her face was deadly serious. "Stay safe, Dr Hooper," she called across the gravestones. Molly shivered even though Sherlock had an arm around her shoulders.

…

Mrs Hudson set down tea and sandwiches in front of the grateful DI Lestrade back at Baker Street. Donovan and Andersen had arranged for the evidence and photos to go back to NSY while the body was transported to Bart's. Greg had rung through to Merseyside to have them contact Cunningham's boyfriend; the detective inspector was relieved that delivering the awful news would not be his job this time. He would head up to Liverpool this evening, after going over the evidence one last time with Sherlock.

Molly brushed a few sandwich crumbs off her skirt as she stood up from her spot in John's chair. The two men had been arguing for 10 minutes now and she felt very little had been accomplished. They would all need to await the DNA evidence from the crime scene. She wished Greg would leave for Liverpool; Sherlock was becoming increasingly cross and she was physically bound to Sherlock for the foreseeable future. She didn't need him in a mood to top it all.

She wandered to the kitchen to put her plate in the sink. Sherlock made to get up and follow, but she held her hands up in defeat. "I'm coming right back," she said.

She aimed for Sherlock's chair, deciding to settle herself in his lap to see if that didn't accomplish the two most important things she could accomplish right now: cheer Sherlock the hell up, and persuade Greg to leave the flat. But somehow her aim was off. She tried to walk towards Sherlock, but seemed to veer off to the side involuntarily. Molly stumbled into Greg; he whipped his arm up to catch her. Molly stretched her neck up languorously to look into his eyes. She seemed to be looking right through him, and Greg turned to hold her up with both arms. He felt his muscles contracting as she leaned more heavily against him, losing all the strength in her legs.

"Greg, I feel… strange," she told him, almost confidentially.

From his chair, Sherlock watched his girlfriend collapsing against his friend. Lightweight Molly was the canary in the coalmine, he realised. He and Lestrade were next.

"We're being gassed," Sherlock informed the Detective Inspector. He jumped haphazardly out of his chair and eased Molly out of Greg's arms, laying her out on the sofa. Greg immediately ran the few steps to the window and threw it open, taking deep gulps of fresh air.

"It's too late for that," Sherlock told him. "We'll be down in minutes." Sherlock had his phone in his hand, texting Mycroft and John: **_Baker Street, gas, they're here for Molly, going under_**.

Greg phoned Donovan and Anderson, he managed to get out his location and told them about the gas before he lost fine motor control and dropped the phone. "Shit," he swore. "Sherlock… we have to keep her safe. They're all too far away to get to us in time."

Sherlock began sinking onto the sofa, his eyes losing some focus and his legs unable to hold himself up. He had to stay with Molly, could not be separated from her. If he let her go, this would be the last time he saw her alive. He could see her on the slab at the morgue, the strange stars and initials carved into her precious body. He fought the panic. Think, solution, answers.

"Lestrade, handcuffs." Sherlock reached out a hand for Greg's jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of standard-issue cuffs. He turned back to Molly and snapped one shut over her left wrist, then clamped the other onto his right. Greg caught on quickly, fishing for the keys in his pocket. With the last of his focussed energy, he threw the keys as far as he could out the window.

"Hope they'll realise they don't have time to saw off my hand before Mycroft's people arrive," Sherlock mumbled to Greg. "Lestrade, remember everything, smells, sounds, anything you can see."

"I'm a fucking detective, Sherlock," Greg hissed, slurring. He was already slumped onto the floor by the sofa, his arm thrown uselessly over Molly's feet.

On the sofa, Sherlock canted over onto Molly, the fingers of his right hand threaded through her left. He snuggled his head onto her chest and felt his eyes closing against his will. He tried to listen out for sounds, clues, but found himself hypnotised by the slow beating of her heart. He started counting, calculating… still strong, but sluggish, 52bpm, he estimated. He barely registered the door splintering open under force, he was so intently focused on willing her heart to keep beating.

Lestrade, a few breaths of clear air behind Sherlock in the rush to unconsciousness, saw the intruders. He quickly created a room in his mind and filed the description away for when he awoke.


	8. Chapter 8

Donovan and Andersen slipped through the traffic on Baker Street at speed, lights on, sirens blaring, but they still had not beat Mycroft's people, who had already swept through 221b and gathered up the few clues left to discover. They had left Greg asleep on the floor by the sofa, his fingers still clinging to one of Molly's socks. Donovan filled a pitcher with cold water and threw the lot over Greg's head. He gasped and shook his head, trying to regain sight and motion through the haze of whatever he'd been gassed with. Donovan knelt in front of him, staring at his face, trying to determine if he was with it enough to answer questions.

"Where are Molly and Sherlock?" she demanded.

Greg reached his hand onto the sofa, patting and gripping and hoping to find them still curled together. He had still been awake when Sherlock laid down on Molly and passed out.

"They were here, on the sofa, cuffed together," he said. "I threw the keys out the window."

"Handcuffed?" Donovan raised an eyebrow.

"Sherlock didn't want them to be able to take her alone," Greg groaned, holding his head in his hands. "Is there any blood? A hand missing a body?"

Donovan quickly shook her head. "No sign of a struggle."

"I saw four of them, three men and a woman. The woman was squirming, angry, scared, fighting them. She knew me – called me by name. I couldn't focus enough to see her face." He thought. Fight for the image, he swore at himself. Get it back. Posh voice, dark hair… "Adler. It was Irene Adler." Greg nodded to himself.

He heard clapping from the doorway. Donovan's head whipped around to see Mycroft leaning against the doorframe, slowly applauding. "Well done, detective inspector," he said. "That makes sense given that we found this –" Mycroft held up a tiny chunk of hard, black plastic. "The heel of a woman's boot. Well, _The_ Woman's boot. It still has traces of mud from Bunhill graveyard. We've tracked her prints as far as the kerb outside the building. A car must have been waiting." Mycroft shot Greg a piercing glance and added, "No, we haven't found them. Yet."

Greg struggled to his feet. Anderson helped pull him up and steadied him. Donovan examined the walls of the hallway and came back. "They must have left a trail if they took Sherlock, too, and they wouldn't have been expecting to take him. They would only have been prepared to take a small woman, and wound up with 6+ feet of unconscious Sherlock cuffed to her."

Mycroft nodded. "They would have needed to carry them out together, at least initially. I suspect my brother has already been relieved of his…" Mycroft studied the trail from the sofa to the door, "…left hand. It was a foolish move."

Greg snapped at him. "It was a brave move. He was willing to risk that to stay attached to Molly even if only temporarily."

Mycroft kicked his foot against the door in a rare sign of annoyance and frustration. "Pull yourself together, Lestrade, and follow me. We have to work quickly. You haven't recovered any women alive from this lot."

Greg sat down on the sofa, resting his hands against the leather where he had last seen Molly and Sherlock. "We are not going to let any of them die. I don't know why they had Adler, but she was awake and with it. Not drugged. She must have left us some sort of trail."

Mycroft and Donovan both agreed. Greg got down on his hands and knees at the spot where he had seen Adler. He had listened, smelled, watched, and he remembered her struggling in a determined, purposeful way. "The floorboards," Greg said. "She snapped that heel digging it into the floorboards right here."

Mycroft dropped down next to him and ran his fingers over the scarred wood. "A straight line with another coming off it at a 45 degree angle. And the letters lb."

"Lb? Pound? Weight or money?" Andersen wondered aloud.

"Why write lb for money? That makes no sense. Scales?" Greg asked.

Mycroft grabbed his nearest agent. "Get all your people. Start scouring the south side of London Bridge." Mycroft looked down his nose at Greg and Donovan on the floor. "The line is the bridge, the angle is the concrete spike on the south side. LB for London Bridge."

Greg's face drained of all colour. "South."

"What?" Mycroft demanded.

"I think the killers are drawing a cultish map with these killings. Points of a star, either five or 8-sided. They haven't gone south of the river yet."

Donovan jumped to her feet and started shouting down her radio, "Get search teams to the south side of London Bridge. We're looking for a building near an unconsecrated graveyard. Feckin' Southwark must be lousy with them." When she looked up from her call, Mycroft had already disappeared with his team. She ran down the stairs with Greg and Andersen behind her, all rushing to London Bridge.

…

Sherlock awoke slowly, starting to use his legs to support the fast pace of whoever was dragging him along a long corridor. He could make out details by focussing to the top and bottom of his blindfold. They pushed him into a room with uneven hardwood floorboards, scuffed and worn and spattered with white paint, the colour of the walls and ceiling. The room was lit by strings of twisted fairy lights, but contained no furniture whatsoever. He was shoved to the floor beneath a small window, and the chains of his handcuffs were secured to a hook on the wall at his back.

Something seemed strange about that as he fully regained his senses. How had both of the cuffs made it around his wrists? Where was Molly?

A man appeared before him, dressed in sharp white trousers, a starched white shirt and a clerical collar. He removed the blindfold, and Sherlock could see the white balaclava covering his features. Sherlock deduced what he could: white male, mid-40s, no pets, doesn't own a car, takes the Tube to work but not far, not married but wearing a wedding ring – strange – has children but estranged… and then his deductions were cut off. The man spoke (native Londoner, mainstream school, not educated past A-levels): "You'll want to see this next bit. I brought you some friends."

Sherlock's heartbeat sped up and his blood ran cold. Please, please let Molly be safe. Don't let it be Molly's body. All the while he was out, he had thought of nothing but the image of Molly, carved like the other women, her precious body cut, raped, lifeless.

A very live Molly was pushed unceremoniously into the room with him. The man stepped out and shut the door behind him. Sherlock heard the lock click into place, and he turned his full attention to Molly. She was wearing a white tank top and a white skirt so short that a pair of blood red knickers were visible from his vantage point on the floor. Sherlock felt his heart stop; someone had undressed her and then put these clothes on her. Pulled off her knickers and slid new ones over her hips. Touched her. He gritted his teeth and tried not to obsess about the possibility that Molly had already been hurt, assaulted.

She squealed when she saw him, delighted. A lazy smile lit her face. No, not just a smile, she was beaming at him with the wattage of a naval searchlight. She crossed the room in a few uncertain steps and fell to her knees across his outstretched legs, her bare thighs gripping into his trousers.

"Molly," he whispered in relief, and he leaned forward to kiss her. She kissed him back with a sexy slowness that struck him as somehow off. It lacked emotion and desperation, all the things he was feeling. Her pupils were too wide, her focus too dim, her smile too pacific and dopey. Dopey. Doped.

"Molly, what have they given you?" he asked urgently. "Focus, look at me. Molly, stop doing that to my neck. Have they injected you with something?"

"Sedatives plus MmmmDMA," Molly grinned. "Wanna taste?" She licked his lips and despite himself he opened his mouth to her. She kissed him lazily, all sexual longing and not a trace of expected fear. Sherlock briefly wondered what adventures taking drugs with Molly in a much safer setting, say Baker Street, might lead to. He pushed the thought away as unworthy. Intriguing, but unworthy.

She removed her tongue from his mouth long enough to for him to speak again. "Molly, listen to me. Listen to my voice. Can you unchain me?"

"But I love you chained. I've never tied _you_ up and my god it suits you so well. You just stay right there, and I'll make you feel really good," she purred. She unbuttoned his shirt, but lost concentration halfway down his abdomen and abandoned the project. She stopped for giggle. Remembering what she'd been up to, she licked across one nipple and over the expanse of his chest to the other. "You taste salty and lovely," Molly told him sincerely, bringing her nose to rest near his mouth. "Have I ever told you that?"

"No, but you've never done quite this much licking." He tried to find a sober spark of Molly in her eyes, and failed. The unworthy thoughts of Molly returned: on his bed in Baker Street, high on E, acting out all her fantasies while he was tied to the headboard... _Not now_. "I need you to concentrate, even if I rather enjoy the licking."

"Oh, so do I," echoed a seductive voice. Sherlock looked up to see Irene recovering her footing from being pushed through the same door. The lock clicked shut behind her again. Irene wore simple white slip dress, cotton, unassuming but revealing, nothing that The Woman would have chosen herself. "Isn't she marvellous, Sherlock? Didn't I tell you she'd be marvellous?"

"Yes, I am already thoroughly acquainted with Molly's marvelousness," Sherlock nodded, distracted by the path Molly's mouth was taking down his chest. Her fingers had rediscovered the abandoned buttons and were making quick work of undoing them. One small hand was poised over the button of his trousers.

The sound of Irene's voice called Molly away from her task. He cursed silently. Still standing above Sherlock and Molly, Irene slid her hands down her own body, from her shoulders to the apex of her thighs, pausing for a lengthy exploration of her breasts and nipples. Sherlock tried to remain impassive; it was hard to tell at first if this was The Woman on Ecstasy or simply The Woman being herself. Molly turned around between Sherlock's outspread legs and lounged on the ground at Irene's feet, licking her lips in anticipation. Molly watched as Irene stroked her breasts through the thin cotton of her outfit. As Irene's hands drifted to her cunt, Molly collapsed with her back to Sherlock's chest, reaching her hands behind her to rub her fingers in his hair. Molly inched herself up his body until her arse was positioned directly over his erection. He felt all the blood in his body, and a significant proportion of his brain, rush to his cock.

Irene gave up on touching herself and moved to stand between Molly's spread thighs.

"Sherlock," Irene whispered reverently, "have you tasted Molly? I've wanted to taste her. Is she as utterly delicious as she looks?" Irene kneeled down and ran her hands up Molly's skirt, rubbing either side of Molly's hips and exposing the tiny red knickers. Sherlock threw his head back against the wall and groaned, slamming his head into the wall a few times for good measure. Irene brought her aristocratic nose just centimetres from Molly's sex and inhaled with a grin. "Oh, Sherlock, she smells amazing."

"All right," Sherlock boomed. "I am officially not enjoying this. Molly. Molly!" He strained against the cuffs still binding his arms to the wall. "Molly! Listen to me, Molly. You will do as I say."

Molly blinked. She wriggled away from Irene's hands and turned to sit on her knees between Sherlock's splayed thighs. She settled in front of him expectantly. He hoped that he could command her enough to make her bend to his will through the fog of Ecstasy.

"Molly, I forbid you to have sex with The Woman. Do you hear me?" Sherlock knew that these words and this tone would earn him a door slammed in his face – or worse – if Molly had her wits about her. "Answer me when I speak to you."

Molly blinked again. She sighed sadly and looked down at Sherlock's bare chest. "Yes, Sherlock."

"Yes, what, Molly?"

"I won't have sex with Irene." Molly sighed again and bit her bottom lip. He spotted the little crease between her eyebrows that indicated she was thinking hard. Suddenly, her eyes lit up with what could only be a wonderful idea. "Could I have sex with you?" she asked hopefully, eyes wide.

Sherlock tried to achieve a look of distaste on his face. _God, yes, please,_ he thought. "Not right now," he managed to say. "Now, can you unhook the chain from the wall behind me?"

Molly smiled at him, eager to please. She reached both arms out behind him, crushing her cleavage into his face as she did so. She grappled with the handcuffs, unseen behind him. He managed to catch one of her cotton-covered nipples in his mouth as she did so. He bit down gently on it and pressed his tongue against the hard nub, but then forced himself to release her. Molly managed the free the cuffs from the wall. Sherlock stood immediately.

"Hairpin, Woman," he said sharply to Irene. "I know you can do this."

Irene snorted angrily. But she fought through the fog of the drugs, released a pin from her long hair, and worked at the lock on the cuffs. They sprang open quickly.

Sherlock rewarded her with a caress on her cheek and jaw. "Trust a dominatrix to know how to unshackle a man," he smiled. Sherlock quickly gathered up Molly in his arms. He hugged her tightly to his chest out of equal parts relief and fear. He may be holding her, but they were nowhere near safe.

Sherlock looked up to the window above him. It was just above his eyeline, standing at his full height, but he calculated that he could make it through unaided. He shrugged off his unbuttoned shirt and wrapped the handcuffs up, then used the makeshift weapon to break the glass. Shards drifted down to the floor. Sherlock cleaned out the window best he could, knocking away extraneous glass to make it safer. Then he held out his hand to Irene, helped to lift her up and slid her through to the street outside. Irene ran straight across the small road and into a brightly-lit off-license. Even in her drugged state, he knew she would call for help.

Sherlock turned to lift Molly out of the window. The sound of the door unlocking again stopped them both for a moment, and the sight of the guns pointed at them stopped them both for good.


	9. Chapter 9

Molly may have lost focus and attention, and Sherlock and Irene had seemed unrealistically and irresistibly carnal, but she had not lost her mind. When she'd seen Sherlock sitting on the floor of that room, beneath the fairy lights, it had almost wiped her memory clean of anything that happened before, as though she could only hold that one thought, of him, in her head.

However, she knew what to fear when she saw it. The men before her, pointing guns at her heart and head… she recognised them. She knew what they had already done to her. They hadn't bothered with balaclavas in their hurry to halt the escape attempt. They hadn't been wearing masks earlier, either, when they had put their hands on her, slid their hands up her thighs and grabbed her breasts. She knew she had bruises in places Sherlock couldn't see beneath the skirt and tank top, on her breasts, at the tops of her thighs, on her hips. She instinctively buried her face in his chest, and he just as instinctively angled her out of their direct line of sight.

"Sherlock, they hurt me," she whispered in a rush. His hands clenched into fists on her back, where he was holding her. He knew they intended to do far worse; he had the brutalised body of every victim etched in his ever-long memory. He could not risk fighting back; three men stood in front of them, all armed, safeties unlocked, fingers on triggers. Sherlock had known from the first victim that beneath all the trappings of a cult – the white dresses, the poundshop-novel symbolism – this was nothing more than an excuse for misogyny. Irene had known the same and sought him out because of it. They hated women. They hated Molly. And they hated him because he sympathised with the enemy.

Molly could almost hear Sherlock thinking as he ran through the possibilities in his mind. They might kill him in this pathetic basement, but they'd want to kill her in an unconsecrated graveyard, like the others. He needed to survive long enough to make it above ground. Mycroft and Lestrade were doubtless looking for them, and anything that bought them time might ultimately keep them alive.

"So I presume you will at least let me see how it's all done before you kill me?" he asked coolly, in his most detached voice. "I'd hate to die without my curiosity sated."

The same man who had pushed him into the room earlier stepped closer, eyeing up Molly. She whimpered so low that Sherlock doubted anyone but he had heard it. He pressed his hand flat against her shoulder blade and pulled her closer. The man sneered: "We only intended to kill your whore." The man paused.

Sherlock knew the man was waiting for a Neanderthal defence of Molly's unimpeachable honour, but he hardly cared what a soon-to-be-dead serial killer thought of Molly. Sherlock was not going to do or say anything that wasn't logically calculated to secure her safety. He answered evenly: "Molly is my love, and she there is no evidence at all that she has anything been less than faithful." He waited a beat. "But even if she chose to shag every man on Baker Street, that doesn't give me the right to hurt her. I don't own her."

The man stepped right up to Sherlock now and pressed his nose into Sherlock's face. "She spread her legs easy enough for us earlier. They call me Father, you know, the collar seems to turn them on."

"Drugging her and raping her does not make her unfaithful." Sherlock assumed the worst. Molly wanted to tell him the truth – they had assaulted her, put their hands on her, that man, he'd put his finger inside her, but then Irene had been a force of nature, made them stop – but Sherlock had one hand pressed against the back of her head, holding her silent and steady against his chest. "Let her go," he inclined his head towards the window, "I'll stay here."

The handgun whipped across Sherlock's face so fast that he had little time to react. He stumbled back, his jaw cut and bleeding, avoiding the worst of the force. The other two men grabbed Molly, and Sherlock made no attempt to hold onto her, knowing that would only cause her more pain and that he had no chance whatsoever of keeping hold of her.

Sherlock nodded to Father's wedding band. "Whoever she was, I can see why she never married you; did you have to get her high every time, or did you just threaten the children?"

Father leaned over and cuffed Sherlock across the face again. "So you want to know how we killed them, Mr Holmes? Very well, we'll demonstrate." He gripped Molly by the bicep, hard enough to stop the blood flow to her hand. She winced. "We top them up with chemical love to make sure they're ready and willing." He stroked his hand down Molly's body, across her breasts and along her legs. His fingers began hitching up her short skirt. "You want your Father, don't you, bitch?"

Molly met his eyes, all trace of haziness behind her now, and kneed him in the balls. He staggered back against the wall, and one of the others carelessly hit her across the back of the head with his gun. Molly crumpled to the floor at his feet.

Sherlock fought every instinct to dive in, shove her out of harm's way and tear these men to pieces. Three guns were still in play, one trained on Molly, one on him and the other still on the ground next to the man Molly had laid out. Sherlock held still; he needed to create another opportunity, a safer one for Molly. He knelt down next to her and checked her head; the wood had soaked up the blood pouring from the wound at the back of her head. He slipped his shirt off and turned Molly on her side, pressing the cloth against the bleeding.

Father struggled to stand. He spat at Molly like a petulant child. "No need to waste a syringe on this one," he told the others, pointing at Molly. "Drag them both up to the graveyard. Cuff him. I want him alive when I put her down. Alive and watching. Tom'll like that."

Sherlock's head whipped around to Father. "Tom?" He didn't have time for follow-up questions; his arms were twisted roughly behind him and the cuffs attached far too tightly.

"Tom told us all about her. Fucked him for more than a year, promised to marry him, then jumped straight into your bed the minute you returned from the dead," Father sneered. "So we've arranged a wedding ceremony for her in the graveyard. Pretty white dress and all."

Father hoisted Molly off the ground and over his shoulder. He signaled to the others to bring Sherlock along. One man dragged him backwards by the cuffs and onto his feet. Sherlock knew that if he could just find a way to make it above ground, he could find a way.

…

By the time their cars screamed across London Bridge, Donovan knew where to head. They wanted an unconsecrated graveyard in Southwark, near London Bridge. Donovan already knew it. She rang Mycroft's car, just ahead on the bridge.

"It's Crossbones, behind Borough Market," she told him. "We just picked up a 999 call from an off-license near the market; seems someone matching Irene Adler's description appeared in his shop 5 minutes ago, ranting about a kidnapping and Sherlock Holmes."

"Are they in the cemetery or in a bolthole nearby?" Mycroft asked.

"I think they'll head to the cemetery, Sir, but I'm sending two units to intercept Irene and find out where she came from. We're going to Crossbones."

…

Crossbones was a pretty little graveyard: neglectfully tended in the backstreets of Southwark, but with iron gates decorated with dried flowers and photographs and ribbons dedicated to 'lost' women. It was a graveyard for prostitutes and infants. Sherlock knew before they even snuck through the gates that this was a 'single woman's churchyard'. Father and his men intended to murder Molly across its graves.

Father carried Molly across the neat paving stones while his men dragged Sherlock behind. They came to grave near the middle, adorned with an angel for a headstone, and Father unceremoniously dumped Molly's body on the concrete. She lay crumpled in a vulnerable heap. Sherlock tried to separate his emotions from his mind; kneejerk protective instincts would not save her.

"So, Mr Holmes wanted to know how it's all done, did he?" Father smiled. "Here's what we do." One the men left Sherlock to hand a syringe to Father. Sherlock didn't hesistate; the cult wanted to kill in a specific way, and he needed to disrupt it. He threw himself at Father, pushing him back just enough to knock the syringe to the ground. Sherlock crushed it with his foot, making sure the liquid from the shattered plastic casing wet the ground.

Two men pulled Sherlock off of Father, wrested him to the ground and put a knife to his throat. When Sherlock continued to fight back, they knifed him in the leg. The excruciating pain blinded him for a moment and he slowed down, just enough time to hear the sirens pulling up outside the gates of Crossbones.

Greg and Donovan barrelled into the graveyard, lights flashing and guns at the ready. Father's lieutenants dropped Sherlock and slunk towards the opposite side of the walled cemetery. Sherlock let all of his rage go, and threw it all at Father. He managed to knock the man to the ground, and stood over him, supporting himself on his injured leg and kicking Father's head and torso further away from Molly.

Mycroft walked inside the gates almost casually, and he lifted Molly off the grave. He carried her easily to the edge of the small graveyard, then balanced himself against the railings. He propped Molly's head against his shoulder, adjusting her carefully as he slid his back down to railings, upsetting the ribbons and ornaments tied to the wrought iron bars as he settled himself onto the concrete paving stones. He arranged Molly so that she did not get in the way of his right arm, her weight spread across his legs, his left arm securing her against his shoulder. He was shaking slightly, and he admitted it to himself. Lie to everyone else if you must, but never to yourself – it impedes performance, he reminded himself. He tried to keep his movements calm and measured. Here was Sherlock's everything, and he could feel blood from her head wound seeping into his Crombie coat. Sherlock had not been exaggerating; Molly honestly felt like she weighed almost nothing.

She breathed evenly against his neck; he could feel a strong pulse. His right hand flicked the safety off the Glock. Mycroft trained his aim towards Sherlock, who still somehow managing to stand, blood pouring from the knife wound in his leg, still on the attack.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called in his commanding voice, "kindly step away from that man." Sherlock stopped, from compliance or exhaustion or pain, Mycroft didn't know. Sherlock teetered back a bit, his leg weakening. Fine, Sherlock thought to himself, this time do as Mycroft asks, let Mycroft save me from myself, from my blatant desire for revenge for what this sadistic fucker had done to Molly. He'd barely cleared half a pace of Father when Mycroft fired, putting a bullet cleanly through the man's head. Father slumped over onto the grave where Molly had been dumped earlier. Sherlock sucked in a breath in shock; his training sent him face-first onto the mud and shale to avoid any follow-up shots. Two more came, whizzing over his head towards two men standing on the far side of the graveyard, a good 40 metres from Mycroft. He dropped them both before they could react.

Sherlock picked himself up from the mud to see Mycroft re-engaging the safety and slipping the gun inside his coat. He looked calm and untroubled. There was no reason… the men had already been subdued… Sherlock had never in his life seen Mycroft do anything that wasn't logically necessary.

Sherlock watched Greg approach Mycroft slowly, both hands in plain view in front of him. Donovan followed, similarly unarmed. Greg bent down to check on Molly's head wound. "There's an ambulance waiting on the other side of the gates. I can't let the paramedics in yet, until we secure the scene. But I can take Molly out to them," Greg explained. "John is waiting there for her." This seemed to convince Mycroft, and he allowed Greg to lift Molly out of his arms. Greg balanced her thoughtfully and continued in the same even tone, "Please hand your weapon over to Donovan. She will give it back to you when our investigation into the shooting is complete."

Mycroft just smiled at Greg. He dug the gun out of its holster, flipped it in the air elegantly, catching the barrel and proffering the handgrip to Donovan. She dropped it into an evidence bag. "Best of luck tracing that," he remarked.

Donovan shrugged. "It was clearly self-defence. Two police officers and a consulting detective can swear to it."

Mycroft hopped up with more grace and ease than Donovan would have credited. Andersen was already helping Sherlock out the gates and towards the paramedics. Greg had settled Molly onto a gurney already and John was assessing her head wound. "Sherlock!" he called out, seeing his friend limping out of the churchyard. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Stab wound to the left thigh," he hissed, collapsing onto the ground next to Molly. He reached out to stroke his fingers across her forehead, drawing the hair away from her face. "How is she?"

"The cut's deep and needs stitching. We'll find out the extent of the concussion at hospital. I'm taking her to Bart's." John reached over, gripped Sherlock's trouser leg with two hands and ripped the fabric open to see the stab wound. "Dammit, Sherlock, that's still bleeding. Lay flat." He turned back to the paramedics who were loading Molly into an ambulance. "Get her to Bart's," he told them, slamming shut the doors. He didn't notice Mycroft slipping into the front seat of the ambulance, next to the driver. The ambulance roared off.

Sherlock lay his head back, John wedging a blanket beneath his head just before it met the tarmac. He started putting pressure on the puncture wound to staunch the bleeding. Sherlock felt the adrenalin draining out of him along with his blood. He had to tell John something important. Something about Molly. Molly and….

"Tom!" Sherlock called out. "John…" he grabbed hold of John's shirt. "Tell them to arrest Tom. They have to take Tom in." Sherlock heard John shouting orders to a second ambulance crew and calling for Greg, but he distanced himself from the chaos. He wandered the halls of his mind palace and found Molly's room. He let himself in.

 _Molly, they're taking you to Bart's. John said your vital signs are strong. Mycroft told me he'd go with you._

Molly was sitting on the sofa from her front room, Toby purring contentedly on her lap. She looked pale but whole.

 ** _You're hurt worse than I am, you idiot. That blade could have severed an artery. You could bleed out. Look at John; he's frantic!_**

 _I've seen him properly frantic, and this isn't 'Sherlock is dying' frantic. This is seriously injured._

Mind Palace Molly shook her head in exasperation. She stood up from the sofa, forcing Toby to leap off in fright with the suddenness of her movement. He noticed that Mind Palace Molly was dressed in nothing but a red lace bra and very tiny, matching knickers. She wore the diamond necklace he'd fixed around her neck the night of the Christmas party at the Savoy. She looked down at herself, then met his gaze with a knowingly raised eyebrow.

 ** _No lab coat this time? No clipboard, Mr Holmes?_**

 _I'm not actually dying. Not that I'm aware of. John has it under control. I'm just seriously injured._

Molly gazed towards the picture window that was flooding afternoon sunlight into her room. **_I can hear John; they're taking you to the A &E at St Thomas's. It's closer. _**

Sherlock mapped the streets in his mind. He nodded. _The best option. You see? John's got it all in hand._

Molly stretched her arms out to him. He gathered her up, all remembered scent and warmth and softness. He snuggled his face into her shiny, clean hair and inhaled. She stepped back just a couple of inches and took his face in her hands, looking full of love and trust. He grinned at her. Then her face morphed into anger, and she let loose an agonising scream, which came out in John's voice. "Sherlock, wake up! Damn you! Wake the hell up!"

Sherlock gasped and his eyes flew open. "John…" he coughed out. He looked around to see hospital corridors flying past, John running after him. "We're prepping a transfusion, Sherlock. Hang on. Stay with me, okay? No wandering off to the Mind Palace right now."

"Molly's in the Mind Palace," he rasped hoarsely. "She's only wearing knickers and a bra. She smells like jasmine. I want to go back…"

"No, Sherlock, listen to me, I'm…"

But Sherlock ignored him. He settled back down on the sofa with Molly and ran his hands over her skin, every mole and freckle and dip and curve mapped out in his memory. Let them do whatever transfusing they needed. Boring. He would stay right here and explore every virtual inch of Molly Hooper.


	10. Chapter 10

_Thank you so much to those of you who have favourited and followed and especially left reviews. I hate to sound needy, but I'm feeling super needy, and I could desperately use a few more reviews/favourites to keep me going. So if you're reading and in any way enjoying this little fic, please do let me know. Thank you again, lovely readers!_

…

Mycroft reached out a hand to help Molly slide onto the floor from her seat on the hospital bed. She felt a little off wearing the clothes that Mycroft's PA had bought for her: incredibly skinny blue trousers and a soft, dark mustard-colour knit top that clung everywhere. Black knee-high boots. Black lingerie, matching, expensive, and a fitted black coat. She looked good, just not like herself. Molly had to hand it to Anthea, the mustard colour looked great on her and she had never considered it.

Usually, finding a doctor to discharge one from hospital took hours. Mycroft had cleared Molly to leave within 5 minutes of the country's top neurologist declaring her well enough to move. Molly didn't know how he'd gotten Dr Singh to check out what appeared to be a pretty standard-issue head wound; she only needed five stitches. He normally practiced across the city at King's. Molly would have to be watched over while she slept for another night, but Mary had volunteered for that duty.

Mycroft put his arm out for her; she didn't have the feeling that accepting was optional. He steered her through the corridors of Barts to the main exit. Anthea rushed up to them just before they walked out the doors, stopped Molly and looped a thick, warm scarf in the same mustard shade around her neck. She then propped a pair of large sunglasses onto Molly's nose. To shade against the fierce winter sun of London? Molly wondered.

"It's very cold, so wear the scarf," Anthea explained. "And photographers."

Sure enough, as soon as Mycroft opened the door for her, lightbulbs started flashing. He led her down the front steps and straight into a waiting black sedan with tinted windows. Anthea closed the car door behind her. Molly felt like she was leaving a trendy club at 2am, rather than being discharged from hospital at 2.30 on an overcast Tuesday afternoon.

Mycroft slid into the seat next to her. He reached over to pull the redundant sunglasses off her face.

"How are you feeling, Molly?" he asked, a bit anxiously.

"You just paid Dr Singh an extraordinary amount of money to tell you that I'm just fine. I have a headache and I'll get dizzy easily for a few days, but I'm basically fine. I just want you to tell me about Sherlock."

"We'll be at St Thomas' in … how long, Anthea?"

Anthea looked from the spot in the passenger seat where she was transfixed by her phone. "23 minutes, with traffic," she said.

"And John says he's going to be okay?" Molly asked, for the sixth time that day.

"Yes, I promise, he'll be okay," Mycroft smiled, actually smiled, at her. Molly briefly wondered if someone had slipped Mycroft some of the MDMA.

Molly leaned back in the car seat, taking care not to aggravate the stitches. She watched the wet city streets slide by, and hoped that everything Mycroft was telling her was the truth, for once.

…

Sherlock was unsurprised to find that Molly's room in his Mind Palace was now kitted out with a bed. His bed, to be exact. Her sheets, though. Molly had a peculiarity about white sheets. Soft, almost satiny, very high thread count, white sheets. She found his caramel-coloured sheets "creepy".

Still, the appearance of his bed in her room prompted some questioning. Sherlock wandered through another part of his Mind Palace where his bed had once resided: his treehouse in his parent's garden. Redbeard was always, faithfully, asleep on top of the (blue) sheets. He opened the door of the treehouse. No bed. No Redbeard, either, which startled him. "Here, boy," he called. "Redbeard." Sherlock clapped and called, walking back out into the corridor and shutting the door to the treehouse behind him. Everything was misfiling. He frowned. Then he spotted Redbeard, wagging furiously and sitting outside Molly's room, scratching to be let in. "Traitor," Sherlock said to the dog. "Now you're moving in with her, too? She owns a cat, you know."

He opened the door. The room flooded with bright afternoon light from the windows (there were three, now), like the warmest day of July. There would be hours more of sunlight in a cloudless sky. Redbeard dove around his legs and galumphed happily to Molly. She sat straight and watchful on the bed, smiling at the dog. She patted the perfect sheets and he jumped up easily, licking her hand and wagging. He turned his snout around and looked for Sherlock, whipping his tail back and forth in happy anticipation as Sherlock drew near. Molly dove out of the way of his tail, laughing. She wore one of his shirts, white as the sheets, with the sleeves rolled up and buttoned in a way that made it clear she had nothing else on underneath. She lay giggling on the bed, her long, chestnut hair spread out in contrast to the bedding, her skin golden and pale in the sunlight. She smiled at him and patted spot next to her on the bed.

 ** _Here boy_** , she laughed.

Sherlock sat next to her and ran his knuckles lovingly across her face while she smiled straight into his eyes. He looked around the room. His violin and his music were arranged near the far window, right next to a bookcase filled entirely with his most treasured books.

 _What are you doing?_

 ** _You asked me to move in. And in contrast to reality in Baker Street, in here it seems that_** ** _you_** ** _move in with_** ** _me_** ** _. You may want to reconsider your filing system, before my room is bigger than the rest of the palace and crammed with all your stuff._**

Sherlock looked nervously around the room. There were some of her things, but so many more of his. He frowned.

 ** _Stop_** , she said. **_Just look at me. This is so new, and you're overwhelmed, you just don't know where to put everything yet. You'll figure it out._** She pulled Sherlock down to her and held his face in her hands, still smiling. ** _I love you, Sherlock Holmes._**

…

John pulled out a chair for Molly and set her paper cup of weak hospital-tea next to her on Sherlock's bedside table.

"We put him under for the surgery, but I would have expected him to surface hours ago," John explained. "It's like he doesn't want to come out of it."

Molly looked at John. "Mind palace?"

John nodded. "Yeah, he mentioned he was in there before we put him under, and um, you were there, possibly not entirely dressed…"

"Right, yes," Molly nodded to cut him off. "He's in his happy place rather than just sorting through clues."

John shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I thought that maybe if you were to try to call him back, he might, you know, come back for the real thing."

"Okay, right, well… could you leave us alone for a bit? Is he physically ready to wake?"

"Yes, he's fine. We stopped the bleeding in surgery and gave him a transfusion. His vitals are strong. He's ready."

John shut the door and left Molly alone with Sherlock. She immediately unzipped her boots and settled herself onto the spot next to Sherlock on the bed. She brushed his hair away from his face; he had a dark purple bruise and two stitches on the right side of his face, and she wondered how that had happened. She couldn't remember. She lifted the sheets and searched out the leg wound. Low on his left thigh was the dressing, clean and white and clinical. She didn't want to wake him by pulling it away to inspect the surgery site.

She took both of his hands in hers and rubbed her thumbs lightly across his palms. "Sherlock," she said softly. "Wake up for me. John's getting worried, and it's time for you to wake."

He drew his eyebrows together in concentration, as though something had confused him, but he did not open his eyes.

"Sherlock," she called again. "You're in your Mind Palace, and I want you to wake up and tell me all about it, okay?"

Nothing.

Molly sighed. She leaned over his body and brought her lips near his ear, while at the same time dropping his hands and running her fingers up and down his body. "Sherlock," she whispered, "whatever I'm doing to you in there is nothing compared to what I can do for you out here. Come out and play." She kissed the uninjured part of his jawline. "I'll make you feel good."

Molly rested her forehead against his and waited; Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and looked up at her with perfect comprehension.

"You clearly have no idea what we're up to in there," he rasped. "I'm not sure you'd agree to it."

Molly smiled and kissed him gently. She thought that he still looked lit at half power. "We can negotiate later. Right now, John wants to see you."

…

Sherlock spent another 24 hours in the hospital. Mary spent 24 hours with Molly tucked into her spare room and six of Mycroft's agents watching the house. This seemed like overkill to both women, given that Mycroft had himself shot dead all three men who had abducted Molly and Sherlock. Anthea dropped over a bag of essentials for Molly, including lots of brand-new clothing, none of it Molly's own. She just wanted her worn, comfortable flannel pyjamas; instead she had black silk leggings and a revealing top.

Tom spent 24 hours locked in a holding cell at DCI Lestrade's request, waiting for Sherlock to wake up and tell him why he'd needed to arrest Tom in the first place. Greg just hoped that whatever the reason turned out to be, it would justify the suspicion of terrorism concerns they'd had to file with the Home Office to keep Tom in his cell and away from lawyers.

Greg interviewed both Irene and Molly. They had information, but mainly on the suspects themselves, who were now dead. Neither woman knew why Sherlock had wanted Tom arrested; the idea appalled Molly. She spent much of her night at Mary and John's house pacing the floor and trying to figure out his connection. Tom might hate her but he'd never seemed a threatening or intimidating force before. Not even a little bit.

When Greg was finally able to speak to Sherlock, back in Baker Street and recovering, the lack of evidence nearly made him stab Sherlock through the other leg.

"You had me arrest Tom, on frankly no evidence whatsoever, because some nutjob mentioned his name during a kidnapping?"

"Greg, Tom might have contracted Molly's kidnap and murder," Sherlock insisted. "I couldn't just pass out from blood loss and possibly die without knowing he was being detained and investigated. I figured that even you would figure out what needed to be done."

Greg waited. Insult or no, he had no clue what Sherlock wanted him to do and he wasn't going to guess and leave himself open to further ridicule.

"Check out the other victims! We need to find out if they had any jealous ex-lovers who they had promised to marry, and then changed their minds. Something like that. It might be that these men are tapping into this cult when they need it, or it's possible that the cult picked up stories and then acted on its own."

Greg nodded. He texted Donovan to retract the Home Office terrorism notification and release Tom.

"Very well, Sherlock, I am letting Tom go. I feel certain that your brother will put a bullet through his head if he makes any attempt to harm Molly again. And I'll investigate the other deaths to see if there's a connection. That will do until you're back on your feet."

Greg pushed himself wearily off the chair. "I hope he wasn't involved. That would be a horrible thing for Molly to learn."

Sherlock shrugged. "I think it makes me look like the safe, stable choice, which very few of us were expecting."

Greg walked out the door. "Poor Molly." He shook his head and stomped down the stairs.

The minute Greg shut the door, Sherlock picked up his phone to text Molly.

 _Are you coming home?_

 ** _Home? No. Also no to Baker Street for tonight, sorry, so tired. I'll come back in the morning._**

 _This is your home. I'm your home._

 ** _I love you, Sherlock. Stop pestering me to move in._**

 _Anthea's been by. She packed up all your clothes and left new ones hanging in my closet. It happened before I got back, before you ask._

Molly seethed. **_Please keep that woman away from me, Sherlock. Tell your brother. I feel manipulated enough without her treating me like her personal dress-up doll._**

Sherlock pulled open a drawer that had contained Molly's collection of cotton, M&S knickers. He picked up a very small satin thong in bright blue that had not been there before. It seemed to match a sheer bra of the same shade. Everything in the drawer had been replaced with a rainbow of skimpy lace and silk options.

 _I don't know. I like what she's done with your underwear drawer._

 ** _Oh my God… please don't let her in again._**

 _It would be a shame for all her effort to have gone to waste. You should at least try some of this stuff on. If you don't like it, I'll rip it off you…_

Molly snorted. ** _I'm sure you will. G'night, Sherlock. I'll be home tomorrow morning._**

Sherlock thought about pointing out that she'd just referred to Baker Street as home. Instead he just smiled to himself, and sat down for a closer inspection of Anthea's lingerie selection.


	11. Chapter 11

_Thank you for the kind words and indulging my neediness with reviews! Another chapter, earlier than planned so I hope it's okay, just to say thanks..._

 _..._

Molly bounced up and down on her toes outside the door to 221b the next morning while John fumbled for the keys. He handed off the baby carrier to Mary, and she rocked tiny Lizzie back and forth to keep her in the same deep sleep. The baby had fussed all the way on the tube and had just dropped off at the street entrance to the flat.

Molly saw nothing but the shut door. Sherlock couldn't possibly be up; it was only 8am. Last night, most of what happened had fought its way clear of hazy memory, and with Lestrade and Mary and John filling in the details, she knew exactly how close she had come to dying. If Sherlock hadn't cuffed himself to her, she would never have survived. She just wanted to hug him, kiss him, hold him… all the things she'd been wanting since she woke up in hospital with Mycroft watching over her. Watching over her in the big brother sort of way that recalled Orwell rather than guardian angel. Even now, four agents had followed them to the flat from John and Mary's. Mycroft was still watching.

John triumphantly flung wide the door and motioned Molly forward.

"Sherlock?" His coat hung by the door, so Molly knew he must be home somewhere. She rushed through the flat to his room and pushed the door open while John and Mary poked around the kitchen to locate the kettle.

He lay face down on the bed, immobile, naked and only partially covered by the duvet. Molly caught her breath. She used her whole body to push the door to his room quietly closed, her back tangled in the bathrobe on its hook on the door. She took a tentative step towards the bed. Then, even in the dim illumination of the bit of overcast morning light that slipped past the blackout curtains, she could make out his steady breathing, the rise and fall of his back. She grinned stupidly to herself for a moment; she realised how scared she had been. She unzipped her boots and tugged down the velvety black leggings that Anthea had left for her at Mary's. When she was down to her bra and knickers, she approached the side of the bed.

He moved like a panther, one arm shooting out and hooking around her waist, the other covering her mouth to stifle any screaming. He hadn't even opened his eyes. He pulled her down to the bed and then rolled her until she was pinned beneath him. Finally, he blinked open his eyes, and they were absolutely serious.

Molly felt tears forming. Stupid, she told herself. You're fine; he's fine. She tried to think of something sexy to say, to distract him. "You're alive," was all that came out.

Sherlock frowned at the tears. "Yes, we both are. But I still need to hear it from you." He leaned himself down over her, so that she had most but not all of his weight holding her against the bed, and kissed her. Molly immediately smoothed her fingers into his hair and sighed. After a few minutes of his tongue rediscovering ever part of her mouth and lips, he pulled away. Sherlock interlaced his fingers behind her head and held her still beneath him. He filled her field of vision, and she could not look anywhere to escape him gazing straight through her mind. "Tell me what they did."

Molly told him everything she could remember, in much greater detail than she had told Greg. He questioned her more exactly than Greg had, he made her show him where the men had touched. There had been three men, the same three that Sherlock had seen later. She still had fading bruises on her hips, where they'd held her down, and on her breasts. She cried a bit when she had to explain about the man penetrating her with his finger; it had hurt and scared the hell out of her. She told him about Irene; explained how Irene had distracted them away from Molly with a whirlwind temper. Then Sherlock had begun to wake, and the men had dragged him away to the room where he'd been cuffed to the wall. There had been talk of other men, but she didn't see anyone else. She could not remember any mention of Tom.

Sherlock did not move from his position above her for the entire discussion. When he felt he'd heard everything, he started kissing her again, in that same desperate way he had after Moran's attempt to murder her. This time, Molly didn't need to cry. Sherlock's kisses moved down her jaw and her throat, and stalled for a long time at her breasts. He kissed every bruise, telling her that he loved her, and how sorry he was that she'd been hurt. He spent so long licking and sucking on her breasts, that they both finally heard the noise of tea and conversation coming from the sitting room and kitchen.

Sherlock released a nipple from his mouth. "Is someone else here?"

Molly gasped. "John and Mary brought me home! God, they've been out there this whole time. And Lizzie!" She blushed. "You kind of made me forget everything."

He grinned at her. "I can hear Greg's voice, too, and Mrs Hudson." He ran his fingers up and down her chest and abdomen. "Just one more thing, then we'll go face them." He disappeared beneath the duvet, trailing his tongue and fingers southwards. Molly dropped her head back against the pillow and bit a corner of the duvet between her teeth to stifle any sounds she was about to make. When his tongue made contact with her core, she added a pillow over her mouth and just screamed into that as Sherlock drove all other thoughts from her overcrowded mind.

…

Molly re-emerged from the bedroom with Sherlock a good hour after she's entered it. Mrs Hudson was topping up the teapot in the kitchen.

"Molly!" she cried, and rushed to give the pathologist a big hug. "Oh, look, you've brushed your hair out so beautifully that no one would guess what you've been up to. Can't say the say same of him…" Mrs Hudson nodded toward Sherlock, who was still buttoning up his shirt.

"Oh, um, well thank you, Mrs Hudson," Molly stumbled, smiling.

"You two done shagging?" John called from the sitting room. "Even Lizzie woke up with all the racket." Molly felt the blush that had been forming since she walked out of the bedroom door deepen and spread.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock replied imperiously, sliding a cufflink into place. "You're making my pathologist go all warm and red…" He stopped to run his fingers over Molly's embarrassed face, trying to work out how far the blush spread, his finger trailing down the neckline of her top. "Hmmm… we'll be right back." Sherlock swept Molly up over his shoulder and strode purposefully back towards his bedroom. He had just kicked open the door when a voice cut through the chorus of laughing from the sitting room.

"Brother mine, do set down Dr Hooper. On the floor right there, not the bed, thank you," Mycroft ordered in his calm voice from the doorway of the flat. Sherlock turned back towards the sitting room and slid Molly down his body and gently onto her feet. He rearranged her hair and her top, spending slightly more time smoothing her top over her breasts than was strictly necessary. Molly shot him a cease-and-desist look. She accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Hudson and sat on the leather sofa near Mary and Lizzie.

Greg finished chuckling to himself long enough to speak to Mycroft. "Any news? I clipped an ankle monitor to Tom just to be sure, so we can find him easily enough if necessary."

"It seems that the cult does extend beyond the three members that we… eliminated," Mycroft spoke evenly, hanging up his coat. "I have established a connection between Tom and Andrew Severn, the one who called himself Father. They knew each other at university. Severn was a religious studies student, but never completed his degree. I know they kept seeing each other, but I still don't know if Tom intended for Molly to be hurt." Mycroft leaned over to give Molly a kiss on her cheek in greeting. "Are you hurt, my dear?"

"Oh, God, make this horror stop," Sherlock cried, dramatically throwing himself into the seat on the sofa next to Molly and brushing Mycroft away from her. "I'm trying to convince her to move in here and your sudden display of … is that your imitation of affection? …is off-putting in the extreme. Stop stalking my girlfriend."

Sherlock still had not asked his brother why he shot those men, men who had evidence to offer, men who were effectively already detained.

Mycroft stood back from Molly and the smile faded from his face, but just a little, such that only Sherlock would have noticed. He levelled his gaze directly at Sherlock. "Why hasn't she moved in already? You're already married."

Everyone stopped breathing. Sherlock tightened his grip on Molly's hand where it rested in his lap.

John recovered first. "What?

"Mycroft," Molly laughed nervously. "That's ridiculous. We're not married. In fact, Sherlock asked me the other day, and I said no…" Everyone sucked in another breath at this. "He was just asking to keep me off the cult's hit list, so I wouldn't be the unmarried girlfriend," Molly quickly explained. Sherlock's grip on her hand tipped into slightly painful in its intensity.

"You were married six months before Sherlock 'died', enough time to convince a judge that it was a real relationship should he actually have died. So no one would question the inheritance."

Molly shook her head. "No, I never agreed to it, or signed anything."

Mycroft smiled at her, more softly, "I assure you that your signature is on the necessary documents. You are legally and legitimately married to Sherlock. It was all carefully backdated."

"But I was engaged…"

John shook his head. "I didn't know about _this_ , but _that_ was never going to happen. None of us thought you'd go through with it in the end."

"It's true, dear, Tom was a complete sop. We all knew you'd come to your senses," Mrs Hudson agreed. She gave Molly's arm a pat.

Greg added, "There was actually a Plan B in place to arrest him on minor drugs charges if you didn't dump him in time." Molly stared at him in shock. "Just to disrupt the wedding, not to stick. It was for your own protection."

Molly attempted to stand up. Sherlock tugged her back down next to him. He wound an arm around her shoulders and managed a stern grip on her upper arm, rooting her to the sofa. "Inheritance?" she managed to whisper, as though each of Mycroft's words were taking time to sink in individually. She looked into Sherlock's eyes for an explanation, only to find him staring resolutely at Mycroft.

"Yes," Mycroft continued merrily, "When Sherlock died, he needed to protect his considerable personal wealth, and the easiest way was to pass it on to a spouse. No tax, no questions. You simply inherited everything. And he was most concerned that he might actually die while taking down Moriarty's network, and that you would need protecting. It was all quite genuine and touching," he finished in his most clinical voice.

Molly couldn't quite process what happened next; she had been off in her own mind, trying to calculate Mycroft's words, make the dates and motivations fit, and so she missed Sherlock's initial move. He was slower with the leg injury, which gave Mycroft time to react, so the damage they inflicted on each other was more even than it might have been otherwise. Mary had moved Lizzie out of the way of the fists and the feet and the headbutting; John and Greg had to circle a few times before they were able to get a proper hold on Sherlock and drag him off. Bloody and shaking, Sherlock looked up at Molly.

"Molly, please, please, please…" he said. "I just wanted to make sure you would be all right if I died. I didn't intend for this to go on for so long."

"Why would I need money, Sherlock, if you died?

"Because if I died I would never have the chance to marry you, as I have always intended," he said. "I wanted you to have the money. And I wanted you to know how I had always felt."

"You were going to let me find all of that out after you were dead?" Molly gasped.

Mycroft sat up and wiped the blood away from his split eyebrow with a fist. "I told you that asking the woman is traditionally the first step."

Sherlock dove for him again, but Greg and John had his arms locked securely behind his back. Molly let out a sob and back towards the door. She worked her coat free of the hook with shaking hand and yanked open the door. Then she disappeared down the stairs.

"Impressive," John huffed out in an incredulous laugh. "Only you would be able to so utterly balls up such a romantic gesture." He dropped Sherlock's arms, sensing that that the fight had gone out of his friend. "How do you intend to fix this?"

Sherlock stood up straight and brushed himself down. The pain in his leg only strengthened his resolve. "Fix what? I wanted her to marry me, and she has. You once told me that Molly never expects an apology from me." Sherlock grabbed the clean kitchen towel that Mrs Hudson held out to him. "No if you'll excuse me, I need to go fetch my wife back home." And with that he dove down the stairs and onto Baker Street to search out Molly.


	12. Chapter 12

London provided the perfect weather for heartbreak, Molly sniffled to herself. This could not even accurately be described as drizzle; it was damp air. An umbrella, had she thought to bring one, would have been useless anyway. The wetness crept in around fibre, slowly soaking through the wool scarf and coat. Molly felt like a wet, fashionable sheep. Thank you, Anthea, she thought to herself. Her trusty old, baggy waterproof jacket had no doubt been donated to a charity shop, and Molly was in the mood to see it as a symptom of her life spinning out of her control.

Not another soul wandered through the secret garden in Regent's Park today, not in this weather. It was never crowded anyway, and it had the distinct advantage that she had never told another living soul that this was her favourite spot. Her father had brought her here as a little girl, and she loved the fact that so few people ever bothered to wander down the almost-hidden entranceway and spend time here. She usually came with a book, whenever there was a bit of sunshine, and she often stopped by on the way to Baker Street or on the way back, when she had the time.

She found her blue-grey bench – it had an arched cover and provided a bit of shelter from the almost-rain. She tucked her legs up underneath her, closed her eyes and for the first time in the six weeks since Sebastian Moran had turned her life upside down, Molly thought. She had wanted Sherlock for so long that she had never bothered to question whether finally having him was a good thing or bad. He controlled and manipulated her; the 'marriage' was just the latest example of his deception. Maybe her life hadn't been perfect before, but it had very much been hers. Her apartment, paid for by her job and partially by her father; her friends, most of whom Sherlock had never met; her fucking clothes, which suited her just fine. She could feel her whole self being slowly replaced by Sherlock and his friends and his associates and his enemies; they were shaping her into someone new and unrecognisable. Someone married.

Molly knew she could rationalise this: he had loved her even then, even at the time of his fall, and he had wanted to show her somehow, even if she would only find out in the event of his actual death. She got that.

She missed her Dad, if only because he had only ever wanted what would make her happy. He had been on her team and only hers. Everyone else in her life, Sherlock included, had competing motivations.

Molly leaned back in the bench, hers as much as anyone's, and pulled her wet wool coat more tightly around her. She breathed in and out and gave in to a bit of self-pity. It spiralled for a while, and she cried. She thought about what might make her feel better. She could visit Meena. She could seek out the café and a hot chocolate. With cream. She could disappear from Sherlock for a little while, perhaps. Secret garden or no, he'd probably find her here sooner or later. Footprints in the grass, Mycroft's agents, a GPS tracking device embedded in her arse while she slept, who the hell knew, but there was no way he'd just do as she wished and leave her alone.

Right on cue, she heard squishy footsteps approaching on the marble steps and sodden grass. They stopped in front of her. Molly let out a shuddering breath, unstable from all the crying, but she kept her eyes closed.

"Please go away, Sherlock, there is something deeply unpleasant about always being hunted down. Deduced."

He didn't say anything for a while. If only he would leave, then she could find a bookshop in Marylebone, buy a silly novel, get that hot chocolate… She could hop on a train in Paddington, go all the way to Bristol, book herself into some anonymous hotel room, order room service. She sighed. He'd find her; he'd track her.

"It is cold and wet and you are only 2 days out of hospital," he said. "Please come home. And don't tell me it's my home. It is yours as well."

"No, it's your home, and I need to choose whether to fit myself in around it. Or not."

"Technically, that's not true. When I was dead, it all transferred to you, and it has never transferred back. Mycroft bought 221b after my death and gave it over to my estate. It belongs to you, along with the contents of all my trusts and the rest of my share of the Holmes family properties." Sherlock sank to his knees in the wet grass beneath the bench. "I quite literally belong to you, Molly."

"Then divorce me. I'll give it all back. I don't want 50% or any percent."

Sherlock rubbed his fingers into her coat. "Don't ask that of me," he whispered.

Molly ran her fingers through her hair. She was completely soaked through now. The temperature was cold, but far from freezing, maybe 10C, and Molly doubted her health was being put at serious risk if she stayed another 15 minutes. She imagined that mythical hotel room in Bristol. Or perhaps Bath. She could read Jane Austen and soak in a tub.

"Please come home, Molly," he repeated.

Molly opened her eyes. He was looking at her with complete sincerity, overcome with worry.

"I am sorry, Molly. I am so sorry." He put his head in her lap. She kept her hands firmly in her pockets, away from his hair and face.

"Sorry for what, Sherlock?"

"The marriage. The lies. Every bit of the danger."

Molly let herself look him in the eyes. "If you're sorry about the marriage, then end it. Tell Mycroft to divorce us."

Sherlock gripped more tightly to her coat. "Will you come back to me if I divorce you?"

Molly did not answer the question. "I can't think around you. You want all sorts of answers and concessions and you want all of it while I'm pulled up tight against you, where I can't breathe or think." She felt about her coat pocket and found her debit card. She ran her fingers along the edges; it felt like freedom. "Go home, Sherlock. You'll just have to trust me, that I'll come back when I'm ready."

"Molly, I love you. Please don't leave me."

Molly looked at him. He had her undivided attention. She searched his eyes. "I love you, too, Sherlock. So let me go. Really let me go. Don't come after me. Send me a text when the divorce is finalised, but not before."

Sherlock nodded. He stood up from the grass and sat next to her on the bench. He sunk one hand into the hair at the base of her neck and pulled her towards him. He kissed her and she responded; that was a good sign, he thought.

"I'll do as you've asked," he conceded. "But please don't make me wait too long. You know I'm terrible at it."

Molly kissed him again. "Try harder," she murmured against his lips. The she pulled back, and watched until he left. Molly forced herself to wait for 15 minutes before she left the garden and walked out the park. She arrived at Paddington 20 minutes later, still fiddling with her debit card.

…

Sherlock shut the door to the flat, utterly spent. Everyone had left, except John. Mycroft had offered Mary a ride home with Lizzie, who had had quite enough of her exciting morning out.

"Well, those look like grovelling knees," John said, pointing out the wet grass stains where Sherlock had knelt in the grass next to Molly. "But no wife that I can see. Has she resisted your charms?" John stopped his verbal assault when Sherlock looked at him, and he could see all of his friend's pain and confusion writ large across his face. "Where's Molly?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not sure she's coming back," he confessed.

John sat back in his chair, a cup of coffee perched on his knee, and considered his friend. He motioned towards Sherlock's chair, and Sherlock obligingly walked over to it and sat facing John.

"I have a case for you," John said lightly. "This friend of mine is so hopelessly in love with a woman that he keeps clinging to her like a piece of driftwood in a flood, like he's going to drown if she goes out to buy biscuits by herself."

"Maybe it's not _safe_ for her to buy biscuits by herself," Sherlock spat. "Maybe she's nearly died three times in the course of their short relationship."

John leaned over his knees and stared down his friend. "It's been a rough start. But their relationship goes back far longer than a few weeks, and he's been the world's most unrelenting arse…"

Sherlock waved his hand at John to cut him off. "Ancient history…"

"…always after something, manipulating her, making her do things for him, playing with her emotions…"

"I'm playing with her emotions? She's leaving me!"

"And now this woman needs a bit of space, because my friend can be an overwhelming force, so this friend, he's going to need to make a decision. Does he follow the leads and track her down? Does he enlist his brother's agents to drag her back to him? Send out the homeless network to follow her? Or does he just let her go and wait for her to come back to him in her own time?"

John stood up and set his coffee cup in the kitchen sink.

"What if she's in danger?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"She'll call you, or she'll call me, or she'll call Greg. If it's really bad, she'll call Mycroft. By the way, I couldn't figure out why Mycroft had gone all strange and murderous and protective, but at least that's cleared up now."

"Is it?" Sherlock demanded.

"He sees himself as her brother-in-law, you idiot. I take it that Mycroft is responsible for the marriage. Well, seems he takes the whole thing a bit seriously. I wonder why that is. I wonder who could have told Mycroft that the sham marriage to Molly maybe meant something a little bit more."

John pulled on his jacket and walked out the door. "Hope you take the case, Sherlock," he called up the stairs as he left.

Sherlock locked his fingers together underneath his chin, and he started to replay the scene. He's slumped petulantly in a chair in Mycroft's office, staring down that godawful portrait of the queen, and he's been dead for less than 24 hours. He's leaving in another 48 to track down Moriarty's network. And he's asking his brother to take care of Molly. To arrange the marriage certificate, complete with signatures filed with the registrar, and Mycroft shifted his mobile phone towards his brother. "Call her, ask her, I think that's how it's done traditionally."

Sherlock refused, claimed it would only make it worse for Molly, that their relationship, whatever it was, needed to wait until his return. And Sherlock had waited, just as he said he would, until John plugged that bullet into Moran's brain and ended the last shred of Moriarty left on the planet. Molly had thought that kiss, the one that started all of this, was about his fear that she had almost died. Perhaps it was, to an extent, but once the danger was over Sherlock didn't dwell on it; he wasn't wired like that. He didn't play 'what if' when the danger had passed. Rather, Sherlock had told himself not to touch her, not to acknowledge her, until the network was gone, and now the network was gone. And he'd wanted her so badly.

Oh, fuck, he thought now. How could he bollocks it up so completely between Bonfire Night and New Year?

…

The same almost-rain hung over Bath as London. Molly was thoroughly sick of feeling damp by the time she stepped off the train. She had bought a change of clothes, some comfy pj's, a toothbrush and hair brush and a phone charger in London. Now she just needed to get to the hotel she'd booked while on the train. She'd stay for a couple of nights. She just needed a bit of perspective and distance. Then she'd be ready for Sherlock again. Maybe being in a fulltime relationship (marriage!) with him was simply going to require frequent mini-breaks. Maybe that's how it needed to work.

Right now, Molly was feeling good. Confident. Independent. She took a taxi to the hotel and checked in. She carried her small bag full of belongings up the stairs of the pretty Georgian B&B, drew herself a hot bath and unscrewed the cap from the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon she'd picked up at a branch of Waitrose in Paddington. She tuned her phone to Radio 6 and danced around the bathroom. She soaked, she sang, she drank and before long all of the self-pity and anger seemed to dissipate. This had been an incredibly good idea. Sherlock hadn't so much as texted. She started, just a tiny little bit, to miss him. This made her smile to herself with the secret knowledge that she loved him and would be telling him that. In two days. After she'd decompressed.

That's when she heard the knock on the hotel door. Oh no, he wouldn't, she thought. Who the hell was she kidding, of course he would. Her good mood popped like a balloon. She stomped to the door, anger snapping like static electricity, and yanked it open.

Molly didn't even have time to draw breath before two strong arms had pulled her against a hard chest. She put up her fists and tried to beat him back. She tried to twist her body and knee him in the balls. But he had her fast.

"Molly, it's so good to see you again. I saw you check in. I can't believe you're here."

Molly manages to push back just a fraction of an inch. She's not buying it. He knew exactly where she was and he's come to find her. It's all still a shock, and as much as she wants to yell at him, to scream for help, all she can think to do is stammer out his name: "Tom."


	13. Chapter 13

Tom held her so close that she felt the breath seeping out of her. She couldn't manoeuvre her legs forward and he had pinned her arms to his chest. He bent his head casually for a kiss, as though he was greeting her after popping to the offie for a couple of beers and they were planning to curl up on the sofa with a movie. Her flannel pyjamas and bare feet made her feel vulnerable next to him. He towered over her, just like Sherlock did, although Sherlock would never, ever hurt her. She felt like Tom might crush her like a bug right now.

Molly had spent enough time around Sherlock and John and Greg and Mycroft and best of all Mary to know that she could not let that hotel door close with them inside the room. Tom had pulled her just over the threshold, onto the landing. The next rooms were half a flight up or half a flight down, but anything was better than inside that room, alone, with the stalker ex-fiance that Sherlock suspected of conspiring with a murderous cult.

"Tom!" Molly tried for a surprised smile, and suspected she had failed. She edged her right foot backwards, hunting for the door. "I can't believe you're here either. You look…" crazed, angry, jealous, hateful, frightening, intimidating… "great."

Her foot gained purchase on the door and she flicked it forward. The door shut with a thud behind her. Tom jerked his head up, then slowly lowered his gaze to her, his expression unreadable.

"Oh no!" Molly smiled ruefully, patting his chest with her trapped hands. "The door's blown shut and the key's inside. It's going to be a bit embarrassing at reception in my jammies." She giggled. It sounded fake and slightly hysterical even to her ears.

"That's all right," he gave her a forced smile. "We can go to my room. It's at the top of the stairs."

She understood now how Sherlock had seen her in his Mind Palace after Mary shot him, because she saw him now, talking her through her reactions: _stall for time, keep him in a public space_.

"But I should get another key for my room and get dressed. We shouldn't catch up with me in flannel PJs," Molly attempted lightly. Sherlock in her mind looked Tom up and down. _His room key is in his right coat pocket, along with his phone. He's still wet, so he's just come in from the rain, likely just checked in, having followed you from the train station. He may have a weapon, but let's be honest, he won't need one to kill you, will he? He's twice your size._

"I think we'll be better off in my room. I'd like to speak to you privately," he continued, tugging her away from her door. Molly's eyes locked onto his leg. _He's wearing Lestrade's ankle tag. They know exactly where he is. They're coming for you. Buy time,_ inner Sherlock told her _._

"What brought you to Bath?" Molly asked.

Tom stared at her, possibly seeing through her attempts to stall him. She knew she was showing all sorts of signs of nervousness – elevated heartrate, sweating slightly, fidgeting – but she didn't credit Tom with enough perceptiveness to spot any of that. He gazed straight into her eyes, looking for answer in them.

"You, Molly," he shrugged. "You brought me here. On the train from Paddington. From Regent's Park. From the front door of that arrogant arse who should have let you die in Crossbones." Molly flinched as he dug his fingers into both her biceps and squeezed. He kept up the pressure, pressing her back against the bannister, while wedging his thigh between her legs. While she could still move her lower arms, Molly fished the room key from his pocket and threw it down the stairwell. It slipped through the gap in the stairs that reached all the way to the basement of the building.

Tom released her arm to grab for the keys, leaning over the bannister as he did so. Molly managed to use his momentum against him, ripping herself from his grasp and diving down the stairs. He faltered for just long enough to give her a half-flight head start towards the lobby, two floors down. But he caught up fast, throwing himself after her so hard that he knocked her off-balance. Molly stumbled and fell, tumbling down three stairs to land hard on the landing of the first floor. She tried to regain her footing, but Tom lunged again, slamming her into the wall so hard that her shoulder dented the plasterboard.

With blood starting to run down her left arm, Molly tried to prise herself away from the wall, but Tom had her pinned. He brought one large hand up to her jaw, tilting her head back in a sick imitation of an intimate gesture. He pressed the heel of his hand against her throat, slowly cutting off her air supply. _Struggle_ , inner Sherlock urged her, _bite, kick, anything, because he is going to kill you right here if he can_.

Molly lashed out, but Tom only pressed harder. He watched her impassionately; he seemed to consider kissing her. He released the pressure on her neck slightly and she gasped in some air. "Molly, why didn't you just marry me? Why does it have to be like this?"

Molly could hear inner Sherlock screaming back at Tom, _Because she's already married to me, you insufferable prick_!

…

Sherlock lay exactly where John had left him, stretched out on the leather sofa, his feet in their wet socks hanging over the armrest. For two and a half hours. He lay there with his phone on his chest, waging war with his self-control not to call Molly and check on her. He stared up at the ceiling and told himself to do as she had asked and wait for her. She would come back to him. If he just gave her time and space and a fast-tracked divorce, she would come back to him.

As he contemplated calling Mycroft to sort the divorce, Sherlock heard pounding steps rushing up his staircase. The door banged open so loudly that Sherlock sat upright. Greg was pulling him to his feet and shouting at him.

"Tom's left London. Where's Molly? Sherlock! Where? Is? Molly?"

Sherlock had actual experience of his heart stopping, recent experience, so he could say with some degree of certainty that he his heart did literally stop at Greg's question. "Gone," was all he could manage.

"Gone fucking where?" Greg shook him.

Sherlock shook his head. Anderson ran into the room waving his phone, "She used her debit card to buy a train ticket at Paddington and then booked a hotel room online – I don't know where yet because the bank doesn't have that kind of detail. We're trying to get hold of the online travel agent."

"Where's Tom's tag registering?" Sherlock demanded, suddenly back in the game.

"He's moving west, he's about an hour outside London," answered Donovan, having shoved in the doorway behind Anderson.

"The trains out of Paddington head west out to Bristol. He followed her onto the train," Greg said. He already had Sherlock's coat and shoes in his hands and was hauling the consulting detective off the sofa. "Everyone into the cars! Call the Bristol force and tell them to stand by."

Sherlock felt himself being dragged down the stairs of Baker Street and into Lestrade's car, before heading west, lights and sirens ablaze. He felt certain his heart was still stopped dead.

…

Tom let Molly gasp a few breaths before he angled her head to one side and pressed his mouth over hers for a kiss. Molly tried to concentrate on taking in air through her nose, shallow breaths, as calm as she could manage. _Do not panic, keep thinking, keep looking for openings_ , inner Sherlock whispered to her. When Tom moved his tongue fully into her mouth, Molly bit down with everything she had. Blood filled her mouth as Tom released her and sprang away in shock. She let herself drop to the floor and rolled down the steps, escaping another half-flight before Tom grabbed her again, spitting blood from his mouth and slapping her hard across the face.

She crashed in bannister, hitting her head against the wood. She was still half a flight of stairs and a thick fire door away from the lobby. She heard other residents opening their doors now, but none tried to take on the bleeding, furious man who was attacking her. Molly curled up into a ball on the landing, trying to protect her aching head with her arms.

She must look like a bloodied rag doll, she thought, as Tom yanked her from the floor to her feet again. Inner Sherlock had left off with his calm, advisory tone and now spoke sharply, almost at a shout _. Molly, use his strength against him. Let his momentum do all the work. Stay still as a rock_. Easy for you to say, Molly wanted to retort, but she didn't even have the strength to argue with a voice in her head, much less take on Tom. So when he threw himself at her headfirst on the edge of the landing, she braced herself against the wall and held still, trying to be the rock as he smashed into her. She heard a sickening crack and felt an overwhelming, aching pain, and tried to focus in on Sherlock's words in her mind: _Hang on, Molly, I'm coming_.

…

Donovan's car pulled onto the quiet lane of proud, Grade II buildings, her eyes scanning for the B&B that Molly had chosen. It was easy to spot in the end, surrounded by local police cars and two ambulances. The sun had long since set by the time they arrived, and she switched on the flashing blue lights to announce their arrival. Her eyes honed in on the front door of the tall, Georgian terraced house. Greg's car was right on her bumper, but she hoped his car's other occupant couldn't see what she could: paramedics were carrying a stretcher out the double doors of the house, and on the stretcher, she could make out a body bag.

Anderson grabbed her hand reflexively, and he made a choked noise in the back of his throat. Donovan threw the car at a sharp angle, almost causing Greg to plough into the side of her. She hoped that forcing him onto the pavement, with she and Anderson in front, was blocking Sherlock's view. Andersen stumbled out first, intending to hold Sherlock's door closed and spare him the sight. But Sherlock was already standing in the street next to Greg's door, watching the stretcher being carried towards the open doors of one of the ambulances.

All his senses sharp, Sherlock drifted along the pavement towards the house. Every light on the street was illuminated, neighbours pouring out of doors to see what had brought the squad cars to their peaceful street. The lights hurt his eyes, and everyone around him seemed to be shouting. He could feel hands pulling at him, trying to drag him away from the B&B. The air smelled like rain and wet cement. His senses overloaded and he could feel himself shutting down, because that was a body bag. No mistaking it, not anymore, not from the ten metres he now stood from the back of the ambulance parked across the pavement and on the front walk of the little hotel. At least a dozen officers scurried in and out of doors and vehicles, taking statements and bagging evidence and making phone calls.

Sherlock couldn't walk forwards. Something was stopping him. He realised that Donovan and Greg had a hold on him. He paused. Unable to move forward, he simply dropped down, kneeling on the wet pavement. Greg and Donovan knelt beside him. Greg's arm was around his shoulders. No one spoke, or Sherlock didn't hear them. He kept his eyes on the scene in front of him, but he saw little of it as he run full tilt towards Molly's room in his Mind Palace. He threw open the door in a panic, breathless. The bed stood empty. Outside the window of her room, he saw the starless night sky of Bath, streaked with pulsing blue light. Sherlock walked silently to her window. No point in calling for her, she would not answer. He picked up a cricket bat from the corner of the room; somehow most of his childhood belongings had made their way to her enormous space. Methodically, he swang the bat and began smashing everything in the room. The bookshelves, his music stand, his violin, her antique dresser, a globe that her father had given her, his skull… he crashed through every piece of furniture, every memory.

Even in her room, he could hear Greg's voice on repeat, "Sherlock, I'm so sorry." And Donovan's: "We will find out where they're taking her body, Sherlock. We will take care of it all." She was stroking his arm. "We've called John, and he's on his way."

Sherlock honestly did not give a fuck if John came or not. He could not think of a single thing he cared about at all. He didn't want a hit of anything, nor a cigarette, nor anyone's kind words. Nothing anyone could say was going to offer the slightest dim sliver of comfort. He tuned it all out. He could hear Greg shouting and Donovan whispering but he walled himself into the ruins of her room and refused to listen.

Then a sound slipped through the cracks. In her room, he looked up to the bed. She sat on her knees, leaning forward, her eyes big and earnest and intent, trained on his soul. She was wearing a pair of dark blue, flannel pyjamas that he'd never seen before. Her hair fell in bloodied strands around her injured face and he felt a knife of pain twist inside him. She reached out and touched his face. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

He grabbed the hand and wrapped his fingers over her pulse. He counted, 86, 87, 88 – her blood raced under his fingertips. He blinked. Next to him, Donovan scrambled to her feet and was pressing a pad of gauze to Molly's head. The paramedics and police that Molly had escaped from crowded around her, urging her away from him, starting to lift her gently to her feet.

Sherlock whipped his hand up to Donovan's waist and stole her handcuffs from her belt. He closed one over Molly's left wrist, and the other over his right. No one was going to stop them touching; Sherlock absolutely needed to remain in physical contact with her.

The paramedics and the police, stunned, backed a step off them. She grinned at him and dropped back to the wet concrete and crawled into his lap. He pulled her into his arms and felt an unfamiliar shuddering take over his body; sobbing, he thought with a start. Molly snuggled into him and lay her head against his chest. He tightened his arms around her, one hand in her hair and the other entwined with her own fingers.

"Don't worry, Sherlock, they can't take me away from you now. Donovan's run off to hide the key," she whispered. "I'm not dead, Sherlock. I'm really not. I promise. I did everything that you told me to, I used his strength against him, and his neck snapped."

"The body they carried out – that was Tom?" Sherlock asked. "I should have noticed, the difference in size…"

"You weren't thinking straight. Mycroft was right; sentiment clouds your judgement."

He bit out a laugh and pulled her closer. She winced.

"You're hurt. He hurt you," Sherlock released her just enough to look her over. The hotel staff and the emergency medical team had already cleaned up the worst of the blood, both hers and Tom's.

"Yeah, he did. But you saved me. Well, the you in my head. You told me exactly what to do, kept me calm and rational." Molly looked at him, guilt and fear in her eyes. "The police want to question me. The paramedics are putting them off because of the head injury." She tilted her forehead against his shoulder. "I'm scared."

Sherlock ran his hands gently over her back. "Don't be. Greg and Mycroft will take care of it. Once Mycroft's lawyers descend, the Bath Constabulary will never dare to utter your name again." Sherlock shifted her off of his lap and stood up. He helped her to her feet, but when she faltered, he picked her up.

Molly lay her head against shoulder and sighed. "I'd like to go to the hospital now, Sherlock. I ache all over and my head feels strange. God, but I've really had enough, you know, of being carried away from crime scenes by one Holmes or another."

He laughed, a real laugh now, full of relief and joy. With Molly cradled in his arms, Sherlock made his way over to the ambulance, then helped to arrange her on the gurney. He sat close beside her, no one questioning his presence as they were still handcuffed together. Greg called to Sherlock that he'd meet them at the hospital.

"I just want you to know that you've got one bloody great mess to clean up in my Mind Palace," Sherlock told her, but he felt lit from within as he moved his hand to her wrist again and counted her heartbeats. "And there's no way in hell you're getting that divorce."

…

 ** _More's on the way… Reviews make me write faster!_**


	14. Chapter 14

Another evening out in accident and emergency, Molly sighed to herself as she was held her breath for the next x-ray. Some couples went to dinner and a movie; she and Sherlock seemed to favour hospitals.

The radiologist shifted her round to get one last view of her left shoulder. Sherlock had agreed to unlock himself from her left wrist only after a long shouting match with two doctors, several nurses and what seemed an entire squad of policemen.

When they laid Molly out on a hospital bed and started hooking up monitors, he sat on a plastic chair next to her, bolt upright, watchful and wary. He held her hand with a strangely gentle, utterly stubborn grip; he could not be shifted from her side by anyone. He rubbed soothing circles into her palm continuously, fingers laced together with hers, while doctors and nurses came and went, checking her injuries and administering painkillers and ordering tests. Molly wanted to find it annoying, but she could not. She did not want him to let go.

"Sherlock, I know you're scared, but Tom's… he's dead, oh my God, Tom's dead," Molly gasped. She had meant to calm him because he had sworn at the attending doctor who tried to force Sherlock to release her hand. The foolish doctor had persisted, and Sherlock had threatened to expose his affair with a woman on reception. The doctor's eyes had widened in shock, then narrowed, and then he left Sherlock to it, refusing to return. Molly had been secretly pleased; she had squeezed his hand in thanks.

Greg had arrived at A&E half an hour after Molly and Sherlock, assuring them that the other guests at the B&B had witnessed Molly being viciously attacked by Tom. The police were convinced that she had acted in self-defence. When the police swore that they would wait as long as necessary to interview her, and when Lestrade personally guaranteed it, Sherlock nodded to Donovan, and she 'found' the key down her bra.

Even so, Sherlock had refused to allow Molly to go into the x-ray room by herself. He had agreed to remain in the radiologist's viewing section after Molly objected to him being exposed to x-rays for no good reason. But he hadn't been happy about it. Truthfully, neither was she. He was currently staring at her, unblinking, his eyes occasionally darting around the x-ray suite, looking for… well, she did not know exactly what he was looking for.

The moment the last image had flashed, Sherlock was back with her, edging an aggrieved nurse to one side. He put his arm around Molly's waist, silently daring the nurse to take a step closer. The nurse glared at him, but spoke to Molly.

"Dr Singh has just arrived to have a look at you. He's using our neurologist's consulting room. Please follow me," the nurse told her, eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

"Dr Singh? From King's?" Molly stumbled in shock. "Why is he here?"

The nurse shifted her attention from glaring at Sherlock to smiling kindly at Molly. "It seems your brother-in-law has some connections," she said. _That must be the understatement of all time_ , Molly thought to herself. She winced as she took a step toward the door. Her lower back was bruised and swollen where Tom had pushed her against the bannister.

The nurse held out her hand to Molly, but Sherlock swiftly shook his head to warn her off. The nurse shook her head sarcastically right back, and asked, "Dr Hooper, are you all right to walk?"

At that moment, Dr Singh burst into the x-ray suite, water dripping from his hair, down his raincoat and flying out to the sides, echoing his fury. Clearly the almost-rain had finally transformed into the real thing. Molly jumped at the intrusion and the noise, suddenly glad of Sherlock's constant proximity so that she could try to disappear into him. Molly noticed that the doctor make a conscious effort to rein in his temper at the sight of Molly huddling in Sherlock's arms.

The doctor twisted his neck to the right, then the left, easing out the tension. He smiled courteously at Molly, and held out his hand. She shrank a bit further into Sherlock, who now had both arms around her.

"Dr Hooper, I'm sorry to hear that your association with the Holmes brothers has resulted in yet another head injury," he said evenly, lowering his hand for her to accept. "I have told Mycroft that if I discover any further injuries to your person, then I shall go personally to the Prime Minister…" Sherlock and Molly both laughed hollowly at that. "Then the queen… to see that his involvement in your injuries comes under scrutiny. But come now, I must examine you and there is no danger here. Mr Holmes, do let go of Dr Hooper, or do you feel the need to deduce my last five sexual partners before I can do my job and ensure that your girlfriend is not seriously concussed?" Clearly the hospital staff had already briefed Dr Singh. There could not be many staff left on duty that Sherlock had not 'deduced' in the most cruel ways possible every time one of them did something that made Molly wince, flinch or cry, even with the best of intentions.

Molly turned her face into Sherlock's chest. She knew that Dr Singh was there to help her, but he seemed so angry, and she'd had quite enough of angry men to last her a lifetime. Sherlock had been viscous with the staff, but she understood that he was in full protective mode.

Sherlock could feel tears seeping into his shirt. He tightened his grip around Molly's waist and shoulders. "I'm terribly sorry, Doctor, that you have been called out yet again to see to _my wife_ ," Sherlock bit out quietly in his most condescending tone. "She has had the most annoying habit of being kidnapped, drugged and attacked over the last two months. Tonight she actually had to kill a man with her bare hands after he nearly succeeded in beating her to death. How ridiculous of her to act so traumatised."

Sherlock turned to the nurse. "Has my brother arranged a private room for Molly?" She nodded. "Very well," he swung Molly gently up into his arms. She felt even lighter than he remembered. He scribbled a note and pinned it to the mirror in Molly's room in his Mind Palace: Make sure Molly eats more, and more regularly. "Show us to her room. I'll settle her in. You," he turned to Dr Singh, "can go work out all your anger and blame on Mycroft. Come up to see Molly when you're prepared to act with genuine calm. I will not allow anyone to startle her further tonight."

The nurse led them, unspeaking, upstairs to a private room. She stepped out and closed the door without a further sound.

Sherlock set Molly on her feet next to the bed. He turned down the blankets, then lifted her up and into bed. He took off his own shoes and jacket and crawled in carefully after her. He lay down flat, head resting on a flat hospital pillow, and let Molly snuggle into him however she felt most comfortable. The moment she rubbed her cheek against his chest, she let out a shuddering sigh of relief and then started to sob. And she kept heaving great, shaking sobs into his chest until her throat hurt and her head throbbed. She still couldn't stop. Dr Singh came and went, waved away by Sherlock. Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan and finally even John drifted in, filling up the room and quietly reassuring Molly and Sherlock, each one placing a kiss on Molly's forehead, even Mycroft. Lestrade brought coffee and tea; Donovan had rescued Molly's clothing and cosmetic bag from the room at the B John brought food; Mycroft brought specialists, all of whom had to wait until Molly stopped crying. The small room was packed tight with chairs and people that Molly knew would keep her safe.

When her sobs at least eased into hiccups, Donovan leaned over Molly and gently brushed the hair off her face. "Molly, I have your favourite shower gel and shampoo from the hotel. Do you want to have a hot shower?" Molly nodded. Donovan looked to Sherlock for permission; he nodded. She smiled and helped Molly to sit up, taking great care to avoid any injuries. John had started the hot water in the shower, and steam was starting to roll out of the bathroom. Donovan led Molly in and shut the bathroom door behind them.

Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He looked at Mycroft. "Singh?"

Mycroft shrugged. "He'll keep another 20 minutes. Let Molly have a shower." He sat on the bed next to his brother. "I've found an excellent psychologist, an expert in PTSD." Sherlock just looked at his brother for a moment; he could feel all of the anger starting to rise up in his chest. He wanted to level the hospital the same way he'd levelled Molly's room in his Mind Palace. But he saw the note on her mirror.

"We need to get her to eat something. She's very weak," Sherlock said, sounding empty.

John sat down on the other side of him. "She might find that difficult for few days, because of the swelling in her neck. Tom tried very hard to strangle her." Sherlock threw his head back and breathed out harshly. He could not scream and frighten Molly. He had seen the bruising and swelling already, but it was another thing to hear it said aloud.

Donovan came out of the bathroom. A bit of steam escaped with her. She shut the door behind her and leaned into it, sliding slowly down to the floor. She looked slightly sick. "The bruising … have they checked her for internal bleeding?"

Mycroft handed John a copy of Molly's notes; no one bothered to ask how he'd gotten hold of them. "No concerns about that, not even a broken rib, which is very lucky. The blows to her head and face… that's what they're worried about. Singh will give us his opinion on that." John swallowed, running his finger down the long list of injuries that the A&E doctors had catalogued. "Her shoulder is swollen, but not broken," he added, looking over the results of the x-ray. "She's on morphine for the pain."

Sherlock had tears rolling down his face by now, his head still tilted towards the ceiling. John reached over and gripped his shoulder.

"None what has happened to her in the last few weeks is your fault, Sherlock," he said.

Donovan chipped in from her spot on the floor, "It had nothing to do with your work. The last three times Molly has been targeted, it was an angry and very motivated ex-boyfriend to blame."

"The worst of it will be everything she feels about having killed Tom," Greg said quietly. "No matter how justified, for a gentle person like Molly, that will be very hard."

The bathroom door opened and Molly emerged in a puff of steam. She was wearing white cotton pyjamas that Donovan had somehow managed to buy for her, late at night in Bath. Molly smiled appreciatively at Donovan: "Thank you for this."

Donovan hopped up from the floor, hairbrush in hand. "Come sit down," she shooed the men off the bed. Even Sherlock shifted himself to his feet. "I'll brush out the knots without hurting your head."

"Give us five minutes and then Singh can come in," Donovan told the men, ushering all but Sherlock out the door. She dried the ends of Molly's hair with a towel and brushed out each section slowly and gently. "There, perfect," Donovan said when she'd finished. "I'm going to head down to the local station and sort everything out, so that Molly can come back to London without being questioned here. I'll see you soon." Sherlock caught the subtext of all the girly bonding; Donovan wanted to apologise to him, for blaming him as the cause of all of Molly's problems.

…

Dr Singh ordered that Molly stay in hospital for the next 48 hours for observation, and so that they could monitor her pain management needs. She spent the whole of that night curled up to Sherlock, crying on and off. The morphine made her sleep, but it also kept her from waking out of the inevitable nightmares. Sherlock watched her sleep and woke her when she thrashed and gasped through the dreams. As Greg had predicted, she seemed less traumatised by the violent attack, and more by the fact that she had broken Tom's neck.

Sherlock refused to leave her room unless Mycroft, John or Greg could sit with her. He took only very short breaks, and waved off any invasive tests or what he considered to be unnecessary medical intervention. She hurt everywhere and told Sherlock that she simply couldn't handle any more pain, not even for a blood test.

After 48 hours, the doctors felt confident that her head injuries put her in no danger. Mycroft once again had her released in record time. He sent a helicopter to bring Sherlock and Molly back to London.

When she arrived at the flat, she saw that Sherlock had redecorated. Things from her flat now mingled with his: her books on the shelves, her crockery in the kitchen, some of her photos on the walls and tables. _Anthea_ , she thought. Sherlock had drafted in an expert to help him keep Molly at Baker Street. No that she now had any thoughts of leaving. She was simply too terrified. Whereas once Sherlock's never-relenting presence had bothered her, now she clung to him and felt wobbly when he left the room to make her a cup of tea. As much as she was traumatised and clingy, Sherlock was equally traumatised and therefor overly protective. Every time he closed his eyes, which wasn't often anymore, he saw the body bag and felt the wet concrete of the pavement beneath his knees – the sheer helplessness of being too late.

After 72 hours back at Baker Street, Sherlock lay awake – again – in his dark bedroom, his chest pressed into Molly's back, her legs slotted safely between his own. His fingers closed over her wrist, and he tried to let the sweet lullaby of her pulse send him off to sleep. It didn't work. He knew he needed to consult Mycroft's psychiatrist, for Molly's sake and his own.

For now, at least there was no more talk of divorce. That thought made Sherlock smile genuinely, and he dozed off, just a little, almost imperceptibly more sure of Molly than before.


	15. Chapter 15

Four days after her release from hospital, Molly awoke in the soft sheets and comforting smell of Sherlock's bed. Their bed, as he referred to it, but Molly still saw it as his. She could not ever imagine leaving, though, not after all that had happened. Every time she closed her eyes, Molly still felt Tom's hands around her throat. She saw his twisted body slump to the carpeted stairs. She knew that adrenaline-fuelled hyper-awareness meant she could remember the incident in razor sharp detail, but that knowledge did not make the nightmares go aware or quash her fear. Sherlock did that. And thus she could not be away from Sherlock.

The man himself had taken a position in an armchair by the window, and was watching every movement as she stretched and ran her fingers through her long, rumpled hair. As much as Sherlock wanted Molly to stay with him forever, he did not want her to stay simply because she was now too scared to be alone. He was too prone to nightmares for sleep, and no one had attacked him. As he had done every morning for the last four days, he watched over her as she slept, then crawled into bed next to her when she woke.

She held up the duvet in invitation and he could feel her body heat all the way across the room. He slid under the covers, and Molly pressed close, running her hands up and down his arms and back to warm him. The cold had helped to keep him alert all night, but now she felt so comforting and soft. Sherlock ran his hands along Molly's hips and up her ribs, sweeping past her breasts on the first pass, but settling on them as he slowly moved his hands back down her body. Molly sighed happily and reached down for the hem of her t-shirt. Sherlock intercepted her hands and pulled the t-shirt over her head himself.

Sherlock ran his fingertips respectfully over the bruises on her shoulder and upper arms. He could still make out the fading marks of Tom's fingers where he had gripped Molly and pinned her to the wall. Sherlock kissed lightly along her neck, still bruised but no longer swollen or painful. Finally he nuzzled his nose against the remains of a bruise on her lower belly. This one troubled Sherlock the most because he recognised the primal level of his reaction to it. The mark had clearly been made by a man's fist, and Sherlock knew precisely why Tom had chosen to punch Molly with anger and force over her womb. It sickened him, almost more than the marks around her throat. It wrenched an acknowledgement out of Sherlock's subconscious: he wanted to impregnate Molly. It was a base instinct and he had spent the last four days wondering over that bruise and trying to deny his response to it. But there it was.

Molly noticed Sherlock once again lingering over that mark on her abdomen. His hands circled her belly and hips as he kissed along the edges of the bruise.

"Sherlock," she ran both hands through the dark curls hovering over her belly, "I'm okay. I don't entirely remember that happening. I… Sherlock… I wasn't pregnant. And it's just a nasty bruise, healing nicely, no harm…"

Her soothing monologue was cut off by Sherlock launching himself up and kissing her fiercely until she was out of breath and pushed him back.

"I know that you weren't pregnant," he finally answered, his voice holding back his anger. "But he didn't know that. Even the possibility…" Sherlock brought his hands up to her face, forcing her to look him in the eyes. His face took up the whole of her field of vision, and Molly searched his eyes, mesmerised. "Molly, I want you to be pregnant."

Molly startled and wriggled up in bed. Sherlock held onto her head, his hands still in her hair, rubbing gently at her scalp. "You what now?"

He moved to the side, sliding so that his body no longer pinned hers to the mattress. He dropped on hand from her hair and let it rest, deliberately lightly, on her hip.

"Molly, I want absolutely everything. I want you to live here, always, and no threat of you ever leaving again. I want to marry you – properly – in a way that you've actually consented to. And I want to put a baby in here," he shifted his hand from her hip to her belly, "I just, really do, want that. Desperately." He kissed her again, as though preparing to start the baby-making process right here right now. "I know you left because I was overwhelming you, and I know this is only likely to make that worse. But you nearly died – more than once – and I thought you dead, and this is what I want. All of you. Please."

Molly exhaled long and low. "Sherlock, this is your fear talking. I'm okay, I'll heal, Tom is dead, Moran is dead…"

Sherlock shook his head hard right to left. "No, this is not my fear talking. This is hope. And… love. Please believe me, Molly." He gazed directly into her eyes again. "It has taken all of my willpower not replace your birth control pills with placebos. I wouldn't," he quickly added, seeing the horror in her face, "I wouldn't, but I wanted to so badly that I could barely stop myself."

Sliding slightly further from him on the bed, Molly pressed her hand against Sherlock's bare chest. "You've moved me in, then you wanted to get married…"

"We are married," he corrected, slightly affronted.

Molly skipped over that, not about to be distracted into an argument on the legitimacy of their marriage. "Now you want a baby."

"If I did the whole Regent's Park rose garden/London philharmonic/grandmother's ring proposal now, would you still say no?" Sherlock locked one hand around her thigh and tugged her closer. "You told me that you'd say no. And you told me to communicate. I've been saying the same thing for weeks; you don't believe me, or you don't want me?"

Molly turned on her side and propped her head on her elbow to face him. He had asked her to marry him, several times now. He had been remarkably consistent. She traced his jawline with one finger and tilted her head to regard him more closely.

"You're being absolutely sincere, aren't you?" She gently nudged his forehead with hers. "You actually want to marry me. And have a child." Her voice cracked slightly on 'child'.

Sherlock kissed her again, his tongue immediately finding hers, then gently sucking her lower lip before releasing it. "Yes, that's what I've been saying." He leaned his head down beneath hers, kissing along her jaw and neck. "Also, I think maybe I want more than one child. In the interest of full disclosure."

Molly felt Sherlock wiping a tear away with his thumb before she realised that she was crying. He seemed satisfied that she had finished fighting him, and focussed his attention on nibbling down her neck towards her breasts. He licked hungrily around one areola before sucking her pink nipple into his mouth.

"I'd say yes now, and probably without the London philharmonic," she breathed out. "Though that would be a nice touch."

Without released her nipple, Sherlock reached across her body and pulled open the drawer of his bedside table. He rummaged about blindly through accumulated junk and pulled out what he'd been hunting for. He lifted his mouth from Molly's taut nipple and carefully placed a blue velvet box atop the same breast.

"Grandmother's ring. Resized to fit your left ring finger; I took the measurement while you were sleeping, the week after Moran…" he trailed off, suddenly intrigued by her other breast. Molly picked up the box in her left hand and rolled it between her fingers, as Sherlock bit down gently and was rewarded with a sharp intake of her breath and her hand on the back of his head, pulling him closer to her. His left hand stroked down her body and found the outline of her knickers. He pulled them steadily down her thighs and began caressing between her legs, urging them slightly further apart. He let his thumb brush just barely across clit, separating the soft folds of her sex to find her wet and warm and waiting for him.

Sherlock groaned as Molly began to make what he thought were the sweetest little noises. He picked up some of her arousal on his thumb, then trailed back to rub enticing circles over her clit. He increased the pressure as she started to moan more loudly, then slide his head down between her spread thighs.

Molly clutched the forgotten ring box in her fist, holding on now for leverage against the wicked motions the tip of his tongue made against her core. Her gasps grew higher in pitch and her breaths panted out. She ran her fingers through his hair and he brought one hand up to play with her breasts. With one nipple pinched between his fingers, Sherlock dragged his tongue and teeth across Molly's clit until she forced out his name in hitched breaths. As she came down from her high, Molly dragged his smug face back to hers, still clutching his head of dark hair in her hands as she kissed him. Sherlock settled between her thighs, spread wide to welcome him, and rubbed her wet sex luxuriously along his smooth, rigid erection.

He pulled his body back just enough to touch his tip to her entrance. "You realise that I'm throwing out your pills the moment we're done, right?" He moved lightly against her, not pushing in just yet, holding her satisfaction hostage to her acceptance.

"Maybe we should discuss this when we're not naked," Molly reasoned, her hips trying to cant upwards and take him in, but her pulled back just slightly more.

"Now seems the perfect moment to discuss my intentions," he grinned, grinding his erection against her clit and causing her to squirm under him.

"Whatever you'd like, Sherlock, anything at all," she sighed. "Just please… please…" Sherlock slid into her, just enough to rub the head of his cock over and over a place inside that drove her mad. She was slick with arousal and he rocked her into a slippery, building pleasure. Molly opened her thighs that bit wider and let him carry on. Her voice was chanting little else other than 'please' and 'more'. He thrust his full length into her then and carried on in long, rapid slides forward and back that thrust on and on. Sherlock lowered his face to the pulse in her neck and began to suck hard on her skin, her tightness and warmth and wonderful wetness threatening to undo him. When she let out a loud, high-pitched moan and clenched around him, he let himself go with a long, low growl.

Sherlock lifted his head from her pulse point and found her mouth, kissing her deeply and letting his eyes close in satisfaction and completion. Molly continued to catch her breath, little aftershocks of pleasure pulsing through her whenever he moved inside her, and he made no motion to leave. Instead, he rearranged himself on his elbows and opened his eyes to take in her hazy smile.

He lifted the velvet box out of her grip and flipped it open with the thumb of one hand, tugging the gold and diamond ring free with his fingers.

"Left hand, please, Molly," he demanded. She proffered it without a word, and he slipped the ring into place. They both admired it on her finger for a few moments, and he placed a kiss across the ring and her palm. "I love you, Molly Holmes." He kissed her again.

She smiled brilliantly and kissed him back. "I love you, too, Sherlock, so very much." She ran her left hand down his face and stroked her thumb along his jaw. "But I'm not now or ever changing my name."

He nodded and caught her hand for another series of kisses along her palm. "I can still to put the pills in the rubbish, right?"

Molly nodded this time. "No arguments from me on that." Sherlock collapsed next to her and finally fell asleep with his dark head on her breast, perfectly content that he'd won all the arguments that really mattered.

 **Not quite done yet... a bit more to come as soon as I can. Thanks again for the reviews and favourites and follows - you're brilliant, lovely readers!**


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